


Mirror Bound

by SlothsTheSinICaterTo



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: F/M, Mindfuck, Psychological, Suspense, dark themes, what the hell is going on?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 02:51:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2092854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlothsTheSinICaterTo/pseuds/SlothsTheSinICaterTo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dante and Trish, they are always walking in circles. He doesn't want to see her leave again and he'll do whatever it takes to make her stay. Obsession at its finest.<br/>DxT</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I won’t say adieu

**Author's Note:**

> This piece of fiction contains: violence, strong language and sexual themes. 
> 
> Out-of-character-ness is very much possible to be encountered while reading this story. The characters within this fic are mash-ups of their anime and game (but not the newest game – DmC) selves. Furthermore, the situations are not of the usual setting portrayed in the canon universes, their interactions and inner thoughts deliberately differ because such are not part of the original material – therefore things are compliant to the scenario. So, some may find this to be OOC – if you cannot stand OOC-ness, do not read this.
> 
> You've been warned, read at your own discretion.

 

**Mirror Bound**

 

 

**Chapter one**

**_I won’t say adieu_ **

 

 

And it all starts with her walking out the door, he contemplates. No, scratch that, it begins earlier than that. It all starts with a nasty scowl that graces the demoness’s features. Oh yes that’s right, Dante agrees with himself, as he downs cheap tequila from a dirty glass.

* * *

 

Trish sits on the battered couch, as one of her crossed legs, clad in fake leather, twitches angrily. But the hunter’s too oblivious to see. The tension that’s surrounding her is just like electricity. And the half-devil snorts at the thought, there’s no ‘like’ about it. He only sees her barely dressed body by the corner of an eye.

_Tap tap tap_ , he’s too engrossed with the wooden-pick that had arrived with his preferred dessert. The shiny paper top on it had been stripped away and now was glaring daggers at its aggressor from down the floor. But Dante’s just swirling the makeshift toothpick in between his lips – ignorant in all its bliss.

_Tap tap tap_.

The phone’s all silent. Hands behind his head, relaxing in that comfy, squeaky chair, but that _tapping_ of her foot doesn’t stop. And now the demon hunter’s eyes are on that enraged woman in front of him. It’s not like it’s not fun to watch her – if that’s all the demonette wants. Not likely, as her head is turned, gaze somewhere, where he’s just not in picture. Dante chews on the piece of wood in his mouth, while his mind is running to the place where Trish could be.

The _tapping_ of her foot just doesn’t stop. And he’s all frustrated and shouting in his mind now, reeling with the quest to find the reason of his partner’s wrath. But that’s all in vain, as always. He furrows his brow as he scolds himself for being all strength – no brain. And here the restless beating of the floor abruptly stops. Oh the half-devil’s all eyes and ears now. And then her face contorts into something he’d never thought that he would see. Until she came around that is.

Trish’s all molded perfectly into the visage that never has expressions such as this. And the hunter is all angry with himself, for thinking about her like that – confusing the demoness with one of the dead. It’s Eva’s face that’s all calm and smiling etched into his memory forever. And he just calls her that because she’s past, simply a dark shadow, a glassy picture on his desk. And Dante thinks it’s better to leave the dead just as they are – _dead_.

The demonette stands up so fast that it leaves a blur of a shadow in his eyes. She strides away neither quickly nor slowly and just as gracefully as ever. So he barks out something just to get a hint to where that black glinting leather covered body’s headed to. Dante half-expects her to hiss something about him not minding his own business.

_“To bed”_ that’s all she offers for a reply. It’s neither sad nor angry sounding, it’s just so very cold. The half-blood shudders as he hears the door slam shut.

And now that she’s gone, he’s free to show all his bewilderment. The clock, he’s having a starring contest with, is telling lies. It must be! It’s nine in the evening and sure the sun had set, but it’s still _nine in the evening_. Never, and he repeats to himself, never, not fucking ever, do they go to sleep earlier than three in the morning.

The demon hunter leans his head onto his leather-gloved hand as he tries to sort this out. There had been no calls as of today and he foresees – there won’t be any. He puffs an angry breath. Of all days – today, all Hell decides to take a holiday, it’s just so fucking peachy. Oh yeah, and it’s doing _wonders_ to his wallet. So he thinks whether it’s the lack of kill that had ruffled her feathers. Dante counters his statement with the simple fact that Trish hadn’t seemed disturbed by this at all, that is until she snapped. Or it’s just that it seemed that way. He dramatically lifts his hands up in the air and then slams his head into the tabletop – how’s he supposed to know what made her mad? He bangs his head a couple more times – just for good measure.

* * *

 

The next morning proves to be uneventful. Dante wakes up from an annoying sound. It turns out to be his alarm-clock, which is immediately thrown into the nearest wall. Albeit sleepily, he adds the object, that had dared to deny him slumber, to his ‘shopping’ list. The tousled man groggily ponders the empty bottle of whiskey that he’s cradling to his bare chest, the fact that he was woken up by that thing (that he’s too insulted to name right now) and also the mystery of the missing blanket.

First things first – the demon hunter declares to himself, as he sits up and rubs his face. If he does this ‘solving the case’ thing right, maybe he’ll find the reason as to why he’s freezing his ass off without his blankee. Oh and it doesn’t matter that it’s the middle of July. The half-devil narrows his eyes, as he mentally prepares himself for this extremely hard task...

The bottle. Is there any need for a reason to drink? He quickly answers his own question with a ‘Hell no’ and moves on. Before smashing the cheap timepiece, he noticed that it showed one pm, nothing unusual there, he always wakes up ‘round noon. But why was it even on? The question proves to be much more difficult and Dante smashes his face into his pillow. It turns out to be made of lead or something of the sort, since the impact sends a hefty jolt of pain into the hunter’s forehead. It causes lots of hissing and cursing.

In between the swearing in his thoughts and aloud, he concludes that the pain in the front side of his head must be from some fight he can’t remember. Dante snorts and _thanks_ himself for drinking so much that he can’t remember half of the shit that was yesterday. He closes his eyes and tries to concentrate harder on the important matter – the abducted piece of cloth. Because really, his tight black boxers (albeit sexy, he adds) ain’t providing much warmth.

Why the alarm-clock had been on anyways, heck he hadn’t used that old piece of crap since... Hell, he can’t even remember since when. Because the best and cheapest wakeup call is Trish. She usually kicks the door and drags him out of bed by hair. All those painful stairs...

Trish! Dante’s eyes flash open. That explains everything! And he gives himself a short retrospective of what happened last night: no jobs, she snaps, she walks, he thinks, he drinks, crawls drunk into his bed, sets alarm clock and... And that’s it!

Full of energy from his new findings the half-devil rushes from his bed. Only he gets tangled in his own long legs, as one of his feet gets stuck into the gash that’s gapping in the mattress. And then he greets the floor with his face, his feet still on the bed. He doesn’t curse this time, since his swears had all been wasted on the first assault of his face. He simply mutters into the carpet ‘Rebellion’ – the name of his sword. The tear in the middle of his double-bed, he recalls, had been made by it. For what reasons – he can’t tell. Because once, he had woken up with one of the biggest hangovers ever, Dante found his sword sticking out of the mattress. He angrily disconnects his feet from the insides of the bed and finds to have fallen on the missing blanket. All rage forgotten, he scavenges his clothes and leaves to get some breakfast.

* * *

 

A lonely morning, a few curses here and there, a few cuts on Dante’s fingers and breakfast too passes without any memorable events. All afternoon goes pretty much the same. There had been a call and he had taken it. A petty hunt for such a hunter. The demon died before he could even squeal and there’s not a speck of blood on Dante’s coat – which proves it. Few bucks here and there can’t hurt. The half-blood thinks as he lights a cigarette and props his feet onto his desk.

Speaking of demons, he turns his head towards the stairs, she hasn’t left the house all day. Her bike still stands in front of his shop. He simply shrugs.

Not long after Dante extinguishes his smoke he hears the deviless’s heels colliding with the floor. About time, he thinks and watches her descend. He can’t hide the mask of shock that forms onto his face – something’s not right. Trish’s hair is pulled up with a big hairclip, the pony-tail barely reaching her shoulders. There’s a short leather jacket pulled onto her thin frame, she’s wearing small, oval sunglasses she said she’d picked up in Vienna… But it’s not her garb that makes him wear the look of a hurt little child. No, it’s what’s thrown over her shoulder and is held by her dainty little hand with long black fingernails. There’s a back-pack... A small triangle-shaped black leather bag.

He simply gapes at the demonette as she struts her way towards the doors. He hears the shop-bell and the door creak. And so she leaves.

He can already hear the word ‘fuck’ repeating in his head, like some sick little mantra.

And so she leaves...  

 


	2. Amber-filled glass perspective

**Chapter two**

**_Amber-filled glass perspective_ **

 

Days and months have passed, filled with reckless fights and drinking. He’s taken on the things that crawl beneath the surface with no pay at all. And the hunter has told himself a million times already – that he’s not searching for her, he’s just riding on his motorcycle all around for nothing, just to find some brawls. And anyway, he wouldn’t know just where to look.

He doesn’t have the slightest clue on time, since Trish had walked away. So somewhere in between the time he had acquired a _nice_ gash across his abdomen and the time he woke up in an alley, across his favorite bar, he’d made a promise to himself – to make her stay this time. Dante had humorlessly laughed then, just as he had done now. Because he’s been a fool all this time, he should have known she wouldn’t stay.

There’s never been a deal, the deviless has been free from the beginning. She’d never left without a warning before because she knew he would have acted like a headless mother hen. And still she was a saint for leaving without a word to say. Words would have been more difficult to deal with...

He should have guessed – she loves the old-lands far too much. And he, what of him? He’s too dormant in this continent, happy and satisfied with his lazy little life. What is he in her way of finding her adventures? Nothing...

Trish speaks so many languages so fluently. He doesn’t know whether she’d learned them now, or had known them before. And to the half-devil it doesn’t really matter. Because one way or another, she didn’t plan to stay...

Dante really does not know exactly when he’d found himself having the deepest depression he’d ever had. And it doesn’t matter because he’s done much thinking and much more drinking to simply understand the cause. This wasn’t supposed to matter, _she_ was not supposed to matter and yet the deviless just did.

He’d been alone most of his life and he loved it that way. But solitude is gnawing at the droplets of sanity he’s left now. And this time it hurts much more than her wrath and fury combined. If anything he’d want it now. To have her power, every little surge of electricity inside him, the idea feels incredibly alluring and addicting. And Hell, the demon hunter has never been one for pain.

It all comes down to the point that his partner is addicting. Maybe it’s because she’s the one to trust and never trust as well, maybe it’s because she understood and, maybe it’s because she could just tolerate it all... The half-blood just wouldn’t know. Trish was never one to judge, she is a demon after all. And even though he’s half-mortal, yet human for them both, he hadn’t cared when either of the races died from his hands...

And now as he’s drinking his amber liqueur for the night, or day (the time’s just all the same), he can’t help but feel the void just growing bigger. The alcohol at this point, when he’s on the floor, lying in his own vomit, should fill him up so nicely. It doesn’t.

However this time as his conscious and unconscious intertwine together, he feels the dive into the black abyss. It usually comes and goes – just like the waving sea. But now, oh now, Dante thinks, he’s hit the bottom. It’s clear from down there but just too dark to see. He laughs at all of it, if Mundus could just see him now! It didn’t go as planned, but surely – the famous demon hunter has been taken down. If he could move his hands he would applaud the one he’d killed, oh yes he would. So strange it is, for the one who’s never seen the picture fully, to witness much more than he’d ever thought.

It’s ironic that Dante’s even thinking this way. He’s never been this sarcastic in his life. Because, he thinks, that no one would expect this from him. He laughs again. They’d never think he could, oh but he would. He’s not too vain, not even too self-loving to do it this way. And if there’s something wrong, who would have guessed it? For all of them, Dante just loved to brag and laugh, and simply live... And now, if he’d just take a noose, for reasons no one would even understand, he’d take the noose and fucking hang himself.

Interesting, what would _she_ even say? It would be so surreal, to never see her face again, one so familiar yet not. Well, it’s not like he sees it now, does he? What would that pretty face contort to if she knew the reasons? He chuckles. She’d laugh and call him stupid for ending it for something worthless. The demonette – she wouldn’t even understand. She hates such control, being willed by emotions or situations – she’s far above it. He thinks, maybe, that’s why he likes her so. Even as the deviless had taken all the orders, from that motherfucker Mundus, she did it with such rebellious passion, he thinks she wasn’t even aware of herself. He knows that now, he envies it. She’s so strong when she’s weak. Something so controversial that shouldn’t even exist... She walks and talks, and teases him with her perfection...

She’s never going back, she’s never coming back...

He should just take that noose and do it. But then again, he isn’t much for hanging – knives are so much better...                          

 


	3. Sphere complex

**Chapter three**

**_Sphere complex_ **

 

 

Waking up in a puddle of his own half-digested stomach content was not Dante’s idea of fun. Last night’s epiphany forgotten or maybe simply chosen not to ponder over. After a shower and an empty meal there’d been a call. With the password ‘and all that crap’ according to the demon hunter. Dante had left for his prey’s lair although his stomach was still churning.

* * *

 

The demon-filth had died too quickly, far too quickly for the half-blood’s liking. At least, he countered, it took his mind off of the demoness. The trip back to his office (it was his home no more) was taxing and boring to say the least. Probably, it wasn’t even that, the emotional strain had simply been too much. Mathematics wasn’t his thing but he had taken interest in counting all the trees and cars he’d passed while driving.

After the engine died, the door had been swung open. The half-devil’s keen sense of smell was quickly insulted with the putrid smell of vomit. He would have left it there, if not for voices screeching in his head for him to clean it. Whatever, at least he’d busy himself with something. He’d taken a filthy mop and it was done with. The small windows had been left all open – to overcome the stench. And so, driven by insomnia and comatose like sleep, the exhausted hunter had quickly dozed off in his favorite chair.

* * *

 

Dante quickly garbs the edge of his office-table top to catch himself from landing on the floor. Still barely out of the phantom-shadows of his dreamless sleep, he tries to inspect the presence that had come to rouse him. It’s something dangerous and soothing and he’s lost at that.

As clicking footsteps approach the threshold of the shop, the half-devil’s barely withholding himself from grinning like a child. He takes his usual laidback pose with his feet upon the desk and tries to focus on the shop-bell. It comes as usual, the tune sounds welcoming and not as loud as always.

The deviless does her cat-walk into the room. And Dante’s just ecstatic, not sure whether to trust his eyes. He’s first to break the silence, and this time he’s calculated all his odds and feels it’s safe to talk to her as always.

“Missed me, babe?” as the words leave his smirking lips, she arches a thin eyebrow in a devious manner.

“Perhaps” Trish’s tone tells him she’s not angry, yet he shouldn’t press the matter.

“Should I hide my money?” he jokes, she feigns mock-hurt.

“Is that all you think I care about?”

Dante shrugs his muscled shoulders.

“Is there anything more I offer?”

She laughs, and it sends a shiver throughout his body, which he hides expertly.

“Not quite” and the demonette chuckles some more at her own statement.

“That hurts you know!” the half-blood exclaims as he wiggles his arms animatedly. It makes her laugh again and he can’t hide his own satisfied smirk that forms from knowledge that he’s brought her entertainment.

* * *

 

The reunited partner’s small-talk drags into early hours of the morning. Both still nailed down to the flooring in the main room of Devil May Cry. As if Trish had never left, the train falls back on track, creating the never-ending sphere complex between them. An enchanted circle that neither can escape...

* * *

 

The demonette tells him of her little trip to the old-lands. And Dante listens, a fit not many know he can commit. The demon hunter doesn’t pry as to why she left so drastically, for he knows of what not to ask. She says that Europe and France especially, looks lovely this time of year. Trish weaves her story, like an expert black widow and Dante only wonders when he’ll be devoured. Maybe as sometimes such spiders do – he’ll be showed mercy... The hunter doesn’t cling much to his metaphors because her story turns intriguing.

He’d never think that his partner could have explored the catacombs that lie beneath Paris. Somehow, the idea of having Trish knee-deep in the sewers of France sounds absolutely ludicrous. He snorts, as much as he knows, the deviless would slap anyone into oblivion for even mentioning such absurdities. But then again, he doesn’t know much of it, perhaps the dungeons are not the way he thinks they are. And before the half-devil even thinks over his silent thoughts, she explains it all.

She tells of skulls embedded in the walls and bones skewed around like trash, of caved-in pathways and poetic thoughts of death engraved forever. The demonette sing-songs about medieval times, of plagues and epidemics, that had begun not without the puppeteering help of demons. She also mentions streets littered with corpses – far too many for any sacred ground to host. As her morbid tale flows her voice betrays such adoration, that he thinks she misses times she’s never seen.

Oh she would fit there, oh yes she would, he agrees with his dark musings. With long, black or blood red gown like dresses, unacceptable and sinful décolletés, even more enticing because of tight little corsets... He hums approvingly, those leather bindings making her luscious breasts appear much larger. And atop of them – colliers with crimson rubies... Trish would be the perfect royalty – feared by even the all-mighty church and respected by all warmongers. Dante envisions the demoness sitting on a plush throne, left-hand being leverage for her head, the other – holding a goblet filled with blood, her husband’s to be – the king’s. The said man’s mangled body lying beneath her feet... The half-devil’s eternal-like daydream, that had taken only a second, disappears as he hears her continue.

The deviless gives him a history lesson he doesn’t mind hearing. She says that once the number of the dead expanded to such masses, impossible to measure, the _des Saints-Innocents_ cemetery had been expanded to the catacombs. Most of them had been sealed shut, abandoned for centuries to come. Only a few places were known and seen by humans so far. Well, that is until a little, adamant demonette decided that she wanted to explore the underground.

Trish bores her wickedly-glinting eyes into the curious hunter and then exclaims that the demolished cemetery, as well as the dungeons, still reek of rot. The half-blood, this time, does not refrain from asking questions. At that, her red lips only mold into an evil smirk. A few immensely strained seconds later, she whispers the reason – the dead had never left the place... And then after such a soul-chilling fact, with a dismissive wave of her hand she adds some more into her story’s cauldron. She says that it’s no wonder – that hundreds years prior and in these days too, the humans that touched the barren walls of the Saints cemetery vaults or the catacombs had ended up decaying themselves. Such presence of death was never meant for mortals to handle...

* * *

After a few more hours of minor chatting Trish wanders out to find something to bite. She leaves for the kitchen and the half-devil stalks her like a looming shadow. His presence doesn’t bother her, not at all. Her slightly melodic footsteps echo in the dark, empty hallway. As she enters the pantry, Dante leans on the doorway and absently crosses his arms over-chest. Unconsciously he blocks her way out.

The deviless ignores the hunter, as usual, and walks towards the grease-stained appliance. The fridge is old and crummy, it makes her wonder how long will it hold before it causes a huge house-accident. Its surface is covered with dirty fingerprints, old notes – her own artsy writing on them, and a bunch of silly-looking magnets. The demonette unceremoniously opens the door and pales visibly. Dante notices her mortified expression and briefly ponders what kind of monsters live in his fridge.

Trish slams the door shut as she tries to calm her raging senses. Without turning to the man that’s wearing a lost expression on his face, she exclaims.

“Compared to your fridge, catacombs are fucking candy-lands” the demoness wrinkles her nose and gives a cold stare to the no longer white surfaced household item. Behind it is a manifestation, she thinks to herself. Her demonic eyes had caught it all... The walls inside covered with gooey greenish-gray mold and the once used-to-be food overcome by maggots... Maggots! In the chilling cold of the freezer.

She narrows her eyes on the owner of the ghastly ‘manifestation’ and now it’s his turn to be frightened. He fidgets uncomfortably.

“I... ate out...” that’s all he manages to meek out. And she cuts it with a single word.

“Obviously.” although Trish notices the changes in his frame, his hanging clothes, she doesn’t mention it.

“We can eat downtown, it’s on me!” Dante pours out rapidly, no longer so sure of his disposition.

“I’m not hungry, _not anymore_ ” she widens her blue eyes at her last words, reminiscing of the horrendous content that used to be edible at some point.

“I’m going to sleep” the deviless says steadily and he nods at it.

The half-blood walks her to the room he’s happy to call hers. They both say their ‘goodnight’s and she closes the door.

The eerie pre-dawn light is there to greet her. The demonette traces her fingers over the furniture and smiles a sad, mocking smile. Nothing had changed, nothing had been moved out of place. Not even by a millimeter, oh she could tell. The bedroom had been left by itself to gather all-knowing, eternal dust. Even the hair brush left with her tangled, dead blond locks inside it. She doesn’t touch it, the refined piece of art. It isn’t really hers and the thought makes her recoil.

Sometimes Trish wants to throw it at that big ornate mirror that’s on the vanity. She’d watch it shatter and the hair comb break in two. She suppresses the urge to commit such an act of pointless vandalism. Not because it’s inappropriate or because it’s not hers to begin with. Oh no, the reason is much simpler or maybe so much more complex. It’s because (the demoness knows it far too well) it would have him running and bursting in, looking for a threat...

She’s not obeying some rule of silence, it’s only that Dante is in her way of doing what she wants. He’d ask far too many questions... So she only flicks her hair, the act displaying her vanity and anger to the four stone walls.

The deviless just throws her backpack onto the make-up table. It collides loudly but it doesn’t shatter the grand mirror. The impact only makes it wobble unsteadily. Without even another spared glance at her discarded pack she shrugs out of her leather clothing. Trish walks towards the wardrobe clad in only lingerie. The wooden closet gives out a nasty creak and it doesn’t take her long to find what she’s looking for. She puts on something akin to a pair of pajamas and curls into the large bed.            

 


	4. The pied pipetress

**Chapter four**

**_The pied pipetress_ **

A few weeks pass, nearing a month, the demon rise high, but not overly so. All concentrated, much to the hunter’s joy, on high-rise buildings. Big money, lots of travelling. And each time she asks why they’re moving so much, the half-blood says in automatic – it’s all for the pay. A half-truth at best, for his reasons differ from what he voices out. His goal is to entertain Trish and he’d be damned (more so than now) if he’d fail. Not like the cash or extra work is much unwanted. Having the demoness’s body grinding to his own in smoke filled metal concerts or heavy-beat, neon-light nightclubs is definitely not a minus...

* * *

Dante’s probably getting carried away in the Devil May Cry shop, Trish thinks. And she wouldn’t give a damn about it if he wouldn’t be making her wait.

“ _Damn leather_ ” the demonette mutters silently, first time ever cursing her choice of clothing. She curls more, if possible, into her thick black wool coat, as she feels her pants cling uncomfortably to her rear. The cold means nothing to her hellish being, health-vise that is, but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s still freezing her fucking ass off!

The demoness turns her head away from the direction of the hunting office to the windshield. The point in sitting in this car is nonexistent when it’s not even a bit warmer inside, but at least it mostly shields her from the biting wind.

The front window of the said vehicle is covered with chunks of used-to-be insects. _Great_ , Trish thinks sarcastically, so Dante’s not the only one who doesn’t know of cleaning. She wonders to whom the auto could belong to. ‘Rented’ is the first thing she strikes off of her mental list – there’s no point in it, when it’s clear that it won’t be back in one piece. The demonette doesn’t ponder long, before she concludes that it’s either from the client or lent by a friend. Honestly, she snorts, how does the demon hunter still have comrades is far beyond her. But then again, judging by the vehicle, maybe the owner knows about its rapidly approaching doom. The thing’s unidentifiable, Trish states, and she’s certain that the half-devil doesn’t know what model it is too. Even the color is a mystery to the demoness, and it’s not the badly lit street’s fault. Maybe a dark green or once a midnight blue? That’s probably the best guess because the paint’s all aged and peeled off in places, the layer of dust and mud not helping either...

So if it’s with a car – do they have to bring back a hostage or the problem? Dead or alive? Maybe not even a person, maybe an object, a relic, a prized possession? She shakes her head – it doesn’t matter anyway.

* * *

The half-blood looks at the contents of the cardboard box he’s holding and wonders what else to take. Most of the stuff’s just random because once he’d started looking for what he needed he spotted other ‘important’ things.

November’s end turned out to be colder than expected but it isn’t freezing yet. Dante’s thankful for that, not because they’re planning on riding their bikes but because the borrowed vehicle doesn’t have the tires for the winter season. And like Hell is he going to spend his hard-earned money for them. However he did take a canister of arctic diesel, somehow he felt the need to do it. Well it’s better than having to purchase it latter, if there would be any on the market anyway. If the temperature would drop lower than -15oC (not likely, but whatever) they’d be iced to the place and that’s not really an option.

The hunter throws, none too carefully, the pack onto his desk, the items inside it clattering angrily. He puts on a beige wool coat, a color that’s hard to find in his closet. Gottah make do with what you have, he thinks as he buttons-up the warm piece of clothing. The half-devil grabs the discarded box and the gym-bag that was peacefully resting on the sofa. He throws the bag on his shoulder and takes two pairs of keys from atop the desk into his free hand.

The demon hunter turns off the lights and strides into the dimly lit corridor. He places his carry-ons onto the ground and walks to put on his shoes. He doesn’t reach his destination as he comes to a halt by the large hanging mirror. Dante wolf-whistles at his smirking image and grins even more as he thinks, that with the right hat he’d look like a gangster from an old movie. The half-blood doesn’t ogle much into his own reflection and continues with his tasks. Once he’s all set he slams the front doors shut and locks them.

He half-runs towards the parked automobile and places his belongings on the backseat. Trish ignores him but Dante pays no mind to it. She’s probably deep in thought, he explains to himself. That expression, the way she’s leaning on her right-hand, are clearly signs of it. Before getting in the half-devil spares a glance to the skies – they’re covered with thick clouds, and he finds himself hoping for it not to rain. The hunter turns the key and much to the occupant’s on his right surprise – the engine lets out a loud roar.

* * *

 

The highway’s long and wide, vehicle lights burning here and there. The driver’s resting his head on his fisted left hand, easily maneuvering the steering wheel with only his right. Both occupants are wary and bored. The barely working heating and the gap, where the stereo should be, is not something that excites either of the partners. They both enjoy music during travelling and right now, in the fruitless, somewhat strained silence, even a radio would do. Not a word was spoken in the last few hours.

Dante glances up at the horizon and recognizes only the same clouded darkness that saw them out. The half-blood muses, if it wouldn’t be autumn – the dawn would have colored the heavens by now. He switches his hands and rubs his lower-lip absentmindedly with a gloved finger. The hunter hears the tapping of fingernails onto the window panel, he tenses and glues his blue eyes onto the road.

About an hour later it still doesn’t seem to be nearing an end. He bites his lip and tries to ignore the demonette’s image which he witnesses due to peripheral vision. Her mood resembles the weather far too much. And Dante just hopes that neither will reach their crescendo. Trish moves her hand away from the window and the stressed man sitting next to her sighs mentally.

Alas the demon hunter gets alarmed again when the demoness starts caressing the hilt of the sword resting in her lap. Oh, he’s scared now. The half-devil gulps the strangely accumulated excess saliva, his adam’s-apple bobbing nervously. The Japanese sword is unsheathed, glinting dangerously in the passing streetlights. Dante feels the need to hit his head into the wheel, a couple times preferably, due to the fact that he didn’t offer to put the _katana_ away. Her finger caresses the naked blade and he refuses another shudder. For whatever reason (and there might be many) it’s gonna get rammed into his gut, he knows it. Stabby, stabby, stabby time, he’s gonna get it rammed inside. Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? WHY? The half-blood’s mind reels inside.

His attention is quickly stolen by a glinting motel sign. Dante uses it as a distraction and says aloud.

“Think we should stop there. I doubt there’ll be any for miles”

Trish raises her eyes because of the agitated man’s words. She simply _mm_ ’s approvingly and he makes the turn. It’s not like they need to rest, they could go on for many days and nights, but being frivolous is something both hunters are exceedingly good at. Dante parks the car with ease in the empty parking lot and eyes the cheap place suspiciously.

“It’ll do” the deviless replies to his unspoken question while she climbs out of the auto. The half-blood shuts the engine and puts the keys into his pocket.

“I’ll get the shit” he tells her as she hides the sword beneath her coat. The half-devil busies himself with their baggage as the demonette observes the shabby looking place.

He all but puffs behind her, although the luggage isn’t heavy – not for him at least, he still looks humorously burdened. Trish enters the one-storey building, she opens the heavy glass door by barely touching it. The buzzing halogen lights are on in the lobby, the whole hallway looks like a time-way to the eighties, if not even older than that – she muses. The once plush, deep-red carpets have turned to a shitty brown, the champagne wall paint cracked and now a dirty yellow, plastic plants and flowers sticking out in pots and vases.

While Dante, still at the back, is trying to figure out how to enter with his hands all occupied, the demoness rings the table-bell. Finally the perplexed man finds his salvation by kicking the door ajar and he makes his way to his waiting travelling-companion. A few minutes later both still stand idly at the reception desk. The demon hunter shows his irritation by slamming his hand down onto the bell, the object lets out a cracking metallic sound, obviously shattering inside. Not like Dante cares for the ungodly hour that it is.

On the other side of the counter, from behind a bead curtain, emerges a middle-aged woman. Her short, fat body covered in a pink bathrobe, more like a whole shower-curtain, the hunter thinks and snorts aloud. Her hair, the ghastly, oily brown ‘stack of hay’ is covered with a hairnet, on her cheek is a mole – the size of five cents, with a few black hairs protruding from it. She creeps closer and the half-blood’s face turns into an obvious expression of disgust.

“Yes, can I help you?” the presumed owner of the motel asks in a heavy southern accent.

“Good morning, we’d like to get a room” Trish replies and plasters a fake smile. Without whipping her grin, the deviless elbows her partner. The hunter quickly recovers and mutters a silent greeting. The owner only stares down the unusual couple warily as she returns the gesture.

“Why certainly sweetheart--” the oversized female exclaims loudly and enthusiastically, all her displeasure seemingly evaporated.

“What is your pricelist?” the demonette cuts the giddy lady. Trish knows very well the greedy ways of the marketers. Before the woman entered, she had already looked over the fees, so she knew how to avoid paying more than was needed. The happy owner chides fervently.

“Since you’re both such cuties, I’ll make an exception for you two, for the room y’all pay--”

Again the demoness quickly interjects and explains with a small dismissive gesture of her hand. The robe-clad woman assumed incorrectly, just as Trish had expected. The owner wanted to press out the room much more costly for a ‘needy couple’, no wonder the nights were cheaper than the days.

“Oh no, no, no, no, no, no, we’re not together. We’ll be needing a room with two beds. I believe it’s twenty-five a night?”

The motel owner’s smile wavers only for a second and then she says.

“That’s right. But I am afraid we don’t take credit cards”

“Not a problem, we’ll be paying in cash” Dante sees the demonette get a wallet from her coat’s inner-pocket and hand the money. After a horrified moment he realizes that it is his own.

He also vaguely hears Trish coil the lard-lady around her dainty little finger and rent the room only for the night. And there’s not much of it left anyways, and he’s sure that they’re not planning on leaving before getting a nice, extra-long rest. Talk about doing business with the devil, the half-blood’s pretty sure that the gluttonous woman would sell her soul if bargained for right now. She’s caught deep in the deviless’s spider-web, obedient and brainwashed by the pied pipetress of Hameln. Oh yes, Dante thinks to himself... Just like the rat-meister of Hameln... Yes, yes... Dead bodies drowned and strewn beneath her feet...

The shallow chatter of the women, well mainly of one very unattractive woman, reverberates in the background. The aimlessly rambling gruesome motel owner and the hollow-smiled huntress pass the languidly strolling half-devil. He briefly feels Trish brush past him, the usual weight of his wallet returning to his pocket. It’s one of those strange moments that he realizes his own illogical existence. It’s the understanding that he doesn’t feel her until she’s a few feet away from him – brings the knowing that all his victories are unfathomable.

And the demon hunter notices that he’s, yet again, walking in front of the two, in the narrow, carpeted hallway. Dante feels like a goddamn bellboy and it annoys him to no end. And soon, but not soon enough, they come to a halt as the now extremely friendly lady announces their arrival. She hands his partner the key to their new temporary lodging and informs that they can call for the management at any time.

They enter the room and he quickly gets rid of the luggage, then turns to his demonic counterpart.

“Screwed with her mind didn’t you, Trish?” The hunter flicks his tongue after her name leaves his throat.

“Not really”

“Oh? How so?” he says as he crosses his arms, not really wanting to take off his warm sand-colored cloak yet.

She removes her shadily hidden sword and throws one of her bags onto a bed. Her response comes, despite her attention being focused on the rummaging of her possessions.

“Just slightly”

Dante tilts his head and inquires, a serious expression marring his face.

“Won’t that be bad in the longshot?”

The demoness turns swiftly to him, meeting his unfocused gaze from across the small room.

“Then I shouldn’t’ have wasted my time, seeing as there was an easier way to get what we needed” Trish smiles her nearly fanged smile, which makes the hunter feel like prey. When she eyes his surprised expression long enough, she finishes.

“Should’ve had her sleep with you. With the way she was staring at your ass when we were walking, we would have gotten the whole motel for free!” the deviless lets out a string of laughter and her companion is completely horrified. Overactive imagination – check! The demonette thinks and only snickers.

“I... have just been traumatized for life...” the half-devil voices out unsteadily as he unsuccessfully tries to eradicate nauseating images from his head.

He doesn’t stand lost in thought long because he hears a heavy screeching of the floor. Dante sharply turns towards the nasty sound and sees the demonette push one of the beds towards the other. That’s gonna leave a mark, the demon hunter concludes silently. She finishes effortlessly and removes her short overcoat.

“Let’s go to sleep” Trish says absentmindedly but the half-blood still feel suspicious. The last thing he wants right now is to misunderstand her and end up healing his wounds. Dante’s time is running out fast, as her clothes end up on the nearby armchair. He’s slightly mesmerized by the whole situation (but mostly by Trish) and he simply gapes like a fish. The deviless puts on a fluffy, warm-looking, large pair of purple nightclothes.

She hurries into the bed, climbing underneath the many comfy covers. She turns her attention to her (in)famous partner.

“Are you coming? I’m doubtful that there’s any hot water in this shithole of a motel, you’re not planning on taking a shower?”

“Ah... No, no I’m coming” she turns onto her side as she hears his words, leaving plenty of room for him to join in. Dante doesn’t hesitate and as soon as he’s covered in thick cotton pajamas he joins her, their bodies not even touching.

“Ya know... It’s gonna snow...” Trish mutters without turning to her still awake companion.

_Fuck_ , yup the urge to hit his head returns yet again.

 


	5. Severed horns

**Chapter five**

**_Severed horns_ **

 

 

There’s that _lovely_ nagging feeling that something’s amiss in his liver, kidneys, guts and his spinal cords too. Dante slams his hand into his face, ungracefully as ever, trying to rub away the remnants of nonexistent sleep.

“Slept well?” the demoness asks raking her perfect hair as if it’s her enemy number one. He turns his attention to her, sits up to see her better.

“...Yeah, yeah I did” the half-blood yawns and rubs some more his already tortured physiognomy.

Trish stays silent and continues her beauty routine. It’s not the worst, as mostly it is ever, monochrome gray – three in the afternoon – truly not the worst time to call her morning. The deviless puts her black eyeliner on as the sleep-deprived hunter scurries in the background putting on his clothing. _That idiot!_ She even hisses like a snake, not something he’ll notice – it’s a proven fact. She doesn’t need to sleep, she’s used to it already, but him... Oh, just wake the man a minute short of twelve sleeping hours and he’s a mess! A fumbling, groggy mess! The visage of the demonette distorts in the small, plastic, orange-rimmed mirror, her gaze and senses unconsciously trailing Dante.

She brushes her blond eyelashes with onyx-black mascara and understands from his hastiness that the half-devil’s realized that the suddenly freezing temperature of the room has little to do with the weather lurking outside. A smirk of plump pale lips signals her approval of his reactions. A string must be winded tight, but not tight enough to make it snap – she ponders.

“The tires”

The sole, soft-spoken words make the demon hunter lose all coiled thoughts. Stopping his actions, he tries to decipher what she was asking. His slowness in finding words is plain enough to tell the demoness of his internal confusions.

“The car tires” Trish explains, silk-cold tone unchanging. At that, Dante practically sky-rockets to the nearest dirty, curtain-less window and curses loudly. The small, barely there, layer of snow and frozen puddles make enough of a statement on their own.

She changes the subject, absolutely unfazed by his dissatisfaction.

“I was thinking about breakfast...”

“What do you have in mind?” the half-blood asks, as his eyes trail the slowly moving lavender-pink lipstick. The hunter admits to himself, it’s like a work of art – precise, slow and meaningful. Even if he never knows the reasons for her actions. The demoness applies a shiny lip-gloss afterward and speaks simultaneously while doing so.

“A small café or at least a stop at the gas station”

Dante nods.

“Yeah, I think you’re right. I’ll look around for something then” he grabs his cloak and checks the pockets as he addresses Trish. “Babe, you don’t wanna go together?”

She simply shakes her head.

“I’ll stay”

He leaves but before closing the door he needlessly informs her.

“I’ll be back soon”

* * *

 

The deviless feels the hunter from a few blocks away and when concentrated hard enough, she even hears him. Her demonic partner’s footsteps banging in her head like ill-fate telling gongs of Hell. The sound is eardrum-splitting now, but she doesn’t open her eyes as he enters their rented room. The demonette’s ice blues meet the cracked, chalk-covered ceilings. Dante’s warm, from its familiarity, voice reports to her.

“Luckily, there is a little café nearby”

Trish doesn’t reply, simply gets off the bed she was occupying. The blond dresses into her outdoor clothes and hands the waiting demon hunter a bag. The demonette also gives a few short instructions about the carrying of their belongings. And after they’re fulfilled she locks the door.

When they reach the front desk Trish slams the keys onto the counter. The loud noise makes the half-devil nervous and he stares down the bead curtain, praying to all deities he knows, that the fat owner wouldn’t notice them. Trish motions with her deadly and dainty hand for him to follow.

“She won’t come. Let’s go”

The demon hunter’s expression changes in an instant – what had she done?

“You didn’t...” He barely finds his voice to even question.

His partner only grins, a wicked grin indeed, and his mind displays him jagged teeth bathed in blood. While he’s mortified and thinking of the motel owner’s dead body, Trish’s already outside, practically gliding through the air. The half-blood follows her and when he’s close enough, so not to shout, he pours his worry.

“But what about her--”

She lets out a soft, ice-covered laugh.

“Chill your panties, I didn’t kill her”

Dante instantly recognizes his own words, the way she jests with them being slightly different. His line is never meant for her – if it ever were, the hunter would be as good as dead now. Although it’s ‘Chill your panties, woman’ and always directed at the same person (a very un-ladylike Lady); he doesn’t know what to make of Trish not calling him a woman. That’s probably a good thing... right?

* * *

 

The café is a small building, covered in ivory-cream colored paneling. Same paint covered benches on the porch, ceramic pots hanging on dark metal chains with long dead flowers. All of it matching well with the neighborhood. And maybe, just maybe, both of hunters hope that the book shall not be like its cover.

Trish walks in front, stepping on the wooden stairs with grace. She notes that the sign written in a pretty cursive, although peeled in places, is not all that unappealing. As the demoness walks in, the bell atop the door ringing invitingly and the pleasant scent of food filling her nostrils, her mood instantly brightens.

It’s so much more modern on the inside, the half-devil admits to himself. The warm atmosphere, dark brown leather seats – so much like the ones in his favorite bar, small, cozy wooden tables...

Both demonic travelers seat themselves in a far corner, as far as in a small, open-like place as this could be. A bright-smiled, brown-haired waitress hurries to them and gives them their menus. She then scurries off, her white-red striped uniform, similar to an apron, swishing by. Dante’s grin outstretches from ear to ear as he says to his companion.

“Not bad, ey?”

The deviless curtly nods, too engrossed in her study to turn her eyes away.

The place is nice, not bad at all, he thinks to himself, but something just screams ‘not a pizzeria’. The half-blood would pout but being in the jolly mood that he’s currently in – even without pizza – ’s all good. Dante scans the contents of the surprisingly longer-than-expected menu and sets for something he knows won’t disappoint – bacon and eggs, at least for starters that is. While he pushes the menu to his left – for later, he notices that Trish is already waiting for him.

“Made your pick?”

“Yea” the hunter replies. “What did you choose?”

“Crepes with fresh fruit and whipped cream” she tells as she closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose, for whatever odd reason.

“Yummy, I’ll go for dessert too. Definitely will”

“Not a fucking sundae!” Trish hisses instantly “I’m not planning on babying a sick half-devil who’s caught a cold!”

Dante’s posture visibly deflates as he gets denied his favorite treat. Okay, so maybe ice cream in winter isn’t such a great idea, but still it’s so not fair! A silent whimper of complaint wheezes out of the demon hunter’s lips and quickly receives a glare from over-table. His partner sighs – why does he have to be like this?

“There’s something like the strawberry sundae, just without the ice cream”

The half-devil’s expression quickly morphs into a look of expectancy and the annoyed female believes that had he been a dog – he’d have the best puppy-face on, with pert ears and all.

“It’s got curd, whipped cream, mashed strawberries and all that...”

He finds the said treat in the menu and quickly mumbles out loud.

“Oh, I’ll go for that!”

* * *

 

After a satisfying breakfast and a sleepless journey, worth more than seventeen hours, they’re finally at the spot. It’s still bleakish, and the air, the demonette thinks to herself, promises the day – just the same. The temperature’s barely above zero (although with a thin sheen of last night’s snow) it had let go of the frozen mud. So now, it’s just a fucking muddy mess, just _great_ , she thinks – her thoughts dripping with sarcasm like poison.

Trish stands a bit away from the disaster of a car they’ve arrived in, slurping hot noodles from a plastic cup, using two toothpicks as eating utensils. Suddenly, but not unexpectedly, Dante flies through the air and lands heavily onto the car’s trunk. So the charging, blue-hued minotaur proves to be quite a tussle. Do mind, it’s not the same child of the Cretan ruler – king Minos. Oh no, that creature had been destroyed by Theseus long ago, or so the legends tell, and digging in the past is of no use, she states.

The barely scratched monster advances, dirt splashing around from his heavy footfalls (well, hoof-falls – more accurately), yellow eyes lit with inhuman anger. The deviless doesn’t even consider helping out. Oh Hell no, she’s heel-deep in mud, standing by the edges of a forest, out in the middle of fucking nowhere! She’s not going to be ankle-deep in that shit!

Her partner quickly recovers and dodges the rapidly approaching beast by slamming the blade of Rebellion into its face. The creature stumbles, being wacked by a big-ass sword clearly not its favorite pastime, and the demoness can feel the hunter wallow in the joy of battle.

The half-devil waits, stalls the fated doom of the myth-alive. He grins, oh what a thrill it is! The blue-skinned beast shakes the hit away, with ease it would seem. But had Dante not been playing, it would have met the cold embrace of the abyss (well, probably there it would wound up soon).

The disoriented creature steadies, breathing labored heavily, snot bubbles protruding from its nostrils. They do not think – Trish knows, planning is not in such a being’s nature. It soon proves her point by attacking, horns directed at the opponent, hooves hitting the ground heavy and hard – the same way the mythical beast had tried before. Pity, they really are sturdy – she thinks.

The demon hunter swirls, his beige, mud spattered coat moves dramatically. The blade instantly slashes the minotaur’s front, leaving a deep gash from its defined pectoral muscle to its abdominals. Almost nothing can stand Rebellion and not be sliced in half – literally. It cuts through skin, muscle and bone like it’s all butter. But dealing with mythical creatures is quite different than dealing with low-level demons.

he wounded beast roars, the skin on its chest separated, not bleeding much but showing bits of ivory bone. And together with the seeping blood, white liquid mingles. Trish tilts her head, there was something about ‘milk skinned’ written in stories of old, but it’s buried too deep down to remember...

Before the creature has the time to even land a hit on its attacker, he’s already behind it – cutting, hurting once again. A thin blond eyebrow rises, done with games already? And two slashes land upon the tall beast: one diagonally across its back, but not deep enough to damage the spinal cords it seems, and another inflicted on both legs, severing the tendons. Not a fair fight played and the demoness appreciates it, so shall the marvelous creature end.

The minotaur loses control of its damaged appendages, but before connecting with the dirt, it receives a powerful kick from the hunter and falls how the half-blood wants – upon its back. Dante quickly kneels by his defeated prey and brings the sword upon its throat, cutting deep and hard into the artery but not severing the head off. The face of the myth-taurus goes lax, the eyelids half open – displaying the whites of the eyes. A disgusting gurgle leaves its maw, accompanied by a mixture of blood, saliva, foam and what seems to be vomit; the pale, fleshy tongue hanging in the corner of its mouth. The grotesque view does not faze either of the partners.

Somehow clean of blood, except for mud, the half-devil begins to drag the dead body of the creature towards the small, compared to the corpse, vehicle. Trish still eats her meal, not minding the whole ordeal.

“Took you long enough to kill a yak” she simply states.

“It’s not a yak” the demon hunter says, although he knows that Trish is well aware that it’s a dead carcass of a minotaur that he currently is dragging. She knows more about the _paranormal_ than he does, yet she just has to ruin his win like that.

The demonette suddenly realizes the intentions of the battle’s victor.

“There’s no way in Hell you’re stuffing that yak into the car!” the demoness cuts in, her voice sounding ultimate.

“But I’ve got to get its horns!”

So that’s what it is, the deviless thinks as she finally understands what they’ll bring back.

“Then cut them fucking off, Dante!” her temper flares.

“…Yea, that’ll do” the tone clearly sings out _‘I had no idea we could do that’_.

As Trish finishes her soup, she ponders to herself, _so it’s always about severed horns, burnt down pride and silent mourns_ – just that much she can remember. Poetic lines of dark magic she can explain but most of all she can control. Strange how so few ever understand them, when all you have to do is listen. And somehow that’s what nobody can ever do, needing a curt precise recipe – how human was that?

Her thought-drowned persona stands watching the busy, happy version of Dante, here searching for fitting saws to do the job, here performing long removals of the said horns, here straightening that damn dent in the trunk...

By the time it’s all finished: the corpse of the minotaur buried, horns all wrapped up and stashed in the car, the sky is of dark byzantium shade.

 


	6. Breaking point

**Chapter six**

**_Breaking point_ **

 

 

Dante walks into the main-room of _Devil May Cry_ , a cigarette dangling from his lips. The hunt was feeble, lightly speaking, and he wasn’t as hell-bent on dragging Trish together with him. The demonette probably wouldn’t have wanted to go anyway.

The half-blood throws his keys onto his desk and a misplaced object catches his attention. He eyes it warily. Enjoying the last breaths of nicotine, he exhales the last few drags. The hunter extinguishes the cigarette into a hard, leather-bound book that’s resting on the office-table not for the reason of serving as an ashtray. Trish wouldn’t be pleased but that’s the last thing on his mind. Dante leaves the butt atop the ancient book and stalks closer to the odd object.

He recognizes it in an instant to be a chair. It’s from the house but the half-devil’s not quite sure from where exactly. It looks so out-of-place in the middle of the room. Strange ropes about it. Not even normal ones... probably, he thinks.

Scanning quickly the room of its contents, he deems to find a carcass of something that was seated in the chair. The demoness was, most possibly, handling her own business. Or relieving boredom. Whichever it was, it doesn’t matter, he concludes. Hopefully she didn’t leave the corpse about. That wouldn’t be like Trish, yet you could never know. He heartily expects not to find a body stuffed in any storerooms or thrown into the basement. They did tend to rot and reek. _Tend_ – was not the word for it...

The half-demon walks closer towards the center of the room, towards the mysterious chair. While the logical part of his mind tries to reason, that there really isn’t anything odd about an extra piece of furniture, he still feels strangely uneasy about it there. Well Hell, it should be closer to the table if it was for a client or something. And the bindings upon it are clearly not comforting in the least. Dante inspects them and finds that he can’t tell whether they’re chains or ropes, from such a close proximity no less. He closes his eyes momentarily, there really isn’t a reason for his vision to swim... Really. And yet as he reopens them – the straps do not seem any clearer. The demon hunter shakes his head and scans the room. He feels and sees nothing in the vicinity. No enemies or threats, nor a certain partner in sight.

Dante feels himself being pushed or losing his footing, he seriously can’t tell which and falls onto the chair. The bindings coil about him without the help of someone tying them. How could he have been so stupid, so careless?! He hadn’t felt a presence of somebody and he can’t even feel one now. He’s never let a foe get so close to him before. A sense of dread sets in the very core of his being. The hunter realizes he can’t rip the ropes away. But now the person that is the cause of his bound state is standing behind him and his form grows numb. Entrapped – that’s all he is now.

And an all too familiar pair of hands tangle themselves into his shoulders. The half-blood’s pupils dilate, eyes wide. A set of curses and something similar to _oh no_ penetrate his mind. A traitorous part of his conscious whispers that it’s not all that unexpected. The half-breed doesn’t hear the sound of heels clicking on the flooring and knowing _her_ – it’s not all that bizarre. Trish walks into his line of vision, her face stone-cold. Dante’s face doesn’t betray any emotions either, for he’s really far too confused to feel anything at the moment. No wonder he didn’t feel her there, after all he always did lower his guard for this very person... She looks stunning, as always, but the thought about that – very fleeting. There are more important things to ponder over... or not.

Trish sets into his lap. He doesn’t say anything, it doesn’t feel very appropriate to talk, or is it? Damn it all to the fiery pit! T’is all far too confusing! Dante briefly sees the amusement twinkling in her eyes, just before she kisses him. And in the progressing vagueness of the hunter’s mind, he thinks that the demoness actually attacks his mouth and painfully pushes her tongue inside. His mind then turns into a void. Not a black abyss type of hollowness, nor one of blinding-whiteness. It’s simply a void, no color schemes behind it.

The half-blood feels the iron clasp of talons at the back of his head, pulling on his hair. But the demonic mouth upon his own, and that tongue, override any other thing. A very insignificant (nothing really seems significant right now) part of his psyche reminds him that he should do what Trish wants, no questions asked. Not that it’s really necessary to tell him that, he’s very well aware of it. The half-devil doesn’t fight the demonette. His eyes wide open, jaw completely unresponsive. His body goes into a coma, and whether it’s an artificial one or not – he can’t tell for sure. When things about him get all hazy, she finally releases him, her breathing very slightly labored.

While Dante battles with himself whether to look at her or not, the deviless has already had her breath. Her hands slip through his opened coat, under the black shirt and her prey flinches startled by the unexpected contact. His eyes land instantly upon her, his whole form rigid on the chair. The demoness tries to move her hands but quickly frowns displeased. The belts across the demon hunter’s chest are quickly unfastened, _ripped_ open.

The grimace leaves her beautiful face, replaced by the blank mask of a perfect porcelain doll, but with a hint of something wicked. Fingernails drag down beneath clothes, across his torso. The bound man shudders without the consent of his empty mind.

The demoness doesn’t stop her movement, not strong enough to damage skin – it’s not the time for that now. _Soon_ , she muses in her mind. And swiftly turns her attention from looking at his chest, to stare into his facial expressions. She tilts her head slowly from side to side, studying him intently.

The change in the path of vision of her eyes, unnerves him more, if that’s even possible. Dante’s gaze quickly falls into the demonette’s, her ghost of a crooked smirk, frightening to say the least. Trish quickly forces her mouth against his unresponsive one again and this time she even closes her eyes. One hand latching onto his shoulder for leverage, the other stilling its movement on his chest, still languidly scratching now and then.

She repeats the process quite a few times more, still watching him, as if he’s a very interesting experiment of hers. The half-breed can’t really register the time that has passed. For it seems that it’s already been forever, since she’s straddled his hips. Oh gods, Trish really is sitting in his lap...

She meets his eyes once more and tilts her head again, this time although in a much more feral manner. The demoness’s eyes narrow and her displeasure becomes visible to him. Her lips curl, in a way that can only mean that she’s disgusted. The hunter’s mind that was beginning to adapt to his new disposition, gets encased in an absolute state of shock. He thinks he hears her hiss and flee from him, as if her prey is a disease. She quickly and angrily, only like a demon could, departs upstairs and shuts the door into her room.

* * *

 

Dante doesn’t know exactly when the binds around him loosen and coil about the chair instead. But he slumps from his sitting position the moment his partner leaves so abruptly. He can’t even force himself to think about what had just happened, nor the reasons why it did.

An untellable amount of time passes and he’s still slouching in the same chair. It feels like it was indeed a very long time but what it was in reality – the half-devil just can’t tell. The half-blood, after building up resolve to do it or making sure his knees will hold, stands up and sluggishly drags himself towards his resting place. His mind as blank as it was before. Although one thought manages to silently pass through – this will change everything, the _breaking point_ has been reached.  

 


	7. Red on red

**Chapter seven**

**_Red on red_ **

 

 

The street is empty at this time of night. Both individuals standing in the cold air dressed very differently than what the temperature dictates. Dante is leaning on the metal railing smoking his cigarette. Trish is standing beside him sharing the luxury, a slim cigarette between her fingers. He smells her heady perfume, sweet to the point of sickening and even the comforting smoke does not overpower it.

The half-devil can’t help himself, he thinks about the things that took place back home. What transpired on that damned chair. Too fey to be real, yet too real to be a dream. The strange thing being – that nothing has changed. The next day and weeks after flowing without a beat of difference. The only reminder being that stupid piece of furniture taking permanent residence in the office. But instead of sitting in the middle of it, like a forgotten object, now neatly placed in the corner of the room. Frustrating as it is, the hunter’s managing on living with the tension, even functioning as is his norm. It’s no wonder really, his partner is pure dread from their first meeting.

Dante steals a glance at the deviless, she seems content, if anything, in the unsettling predicament they’re currently in. And it’s unsettling all on his end though. This current hunt is nothing special, another gluttonous demon, is all. But they’re simply standing and smoking, not sharing any conversation, as the walking nightmare is having a feast. Most possibly across the small, one-vehicle street no less.

Dante finds the change of scenery welcome and even invigorating. The demonette seems to be enjoying it too. Consciously or not the half-blood knows it’s all for her. This trip was his idea, taking up an international hunt. The slay in Berlin was thrilling, bordering on massacre even. They had exterminated a large demon nest. Once that commission was done with they moved out of the capital. Their next one led them here.

It isn’t a shabby neighborhood. Old in fashion – yes, but needing reconstruction. The hunter turns and looks over the railing. It seems puzzling to him that the thing is here. The slope behind it – very small and needs no protection from it

His mind though wonders back to their current mission. It’s a lone demon, he doesn’t know its kind, but the deviless most possibly does. The demon hunter cares not for such information, unless his prey has some ability or power he should be wary of. And the weak points, well, he enjoys finding those out on his own. This one isn’t like the ones in the nest, it’s much larger and it’s a solo player too. The half-devil hopes, against all the odds, that he won’t let any more humans become the monster’s meal. But the chance to hear frightened screams is almost nonexistent. The creature tends to tear out the throats of its victims, whether to silence them or simply because it’s in its nature – Dante doesn’t know. He tosses his smoke over the railing and soon Trish does the same.

The half-breed turns his attention back to the apartments over-street. They not only know which cottage building but the exact condo the demon had or will attack. His partner turns to him and informs that the deed is already done. He tries not to feel any remorse about it, perhaps he wouldn’t have been able to stop it anyway. So the demon hunter simply nods, he doesn’t ask her how she knows, and simply walks toward the entrance of the said apartment.

Dante climbs the few concrete stairs and his gloved hand lands upon the door handle, finding it unlocked. It’s a weird fact but it’s unimportant and the hunter walks inside. Trish then closes the entrance door with a heavy _clink_ of the lock. He takes in the apartment and his stomach coils into many fine sailor-knots.

The TV is turned on, white cable cord severed and the screen showing static snow. The street lights coming out from the windows along with the TV are more than enough to illuminate the room so that both hunters of demonic descent could investigate it fully. The stench of blood and gut – excrement, is strong even for any human being to withstand. The whole west wall of the room covered in specks of gore. Judging from the blood splatter, most of it from a ripped open throat or two, the half-devil thinks. The culprit no longer in the vicinity but somewhere near. Very near...

Dante steps closer to the victims, deeper into the pastel palette covered living room/kitchen area. He minds where he puts his feet, not wanting to step into the congealed blood. Not because of leaving footprints but because scrubbing his boots is one of his least favorite pastimes. The half-blood passes the sofa walking closer to the main course of the vile creature, leaning down to inspect the bodies.

Trish kneels onto the couch, maneuvering her weight to peer down behind it. She snorts mentally – he’s got that remorse-filled look about him, idiotic half-human. The demonette thinks to herself that she’ll never comprehend his humane complexity.

She studies the corpses, taking less time than her partner to assess the recent happenings. A family of three, slaughtered recently, in between the span of mere thirty – sixty minutes. The mother and child strewn behind the loveseat, the father caught near the half-wall, which separates the main area from the kitchenette. A tilt of her head, she contemplates, the woman – in her early thirties, of medium build and mid-length blond hair; the daughter aged between seven and nine. also pale-haired with two braids framing her lovely, terror stricken face; the father in his mid-thirties or early forties, of medium build, tall, brown haired.

The wife (her marital status the deviless could tell by the golden ring on the corpse’s finger) died first, most possibly, judging by the looks of it. Her neck crushed in the vice grip of their prey. But that’s hard to tell because her throat’s been ripped out in one powerful bite. It’s odd she thinks, by the description that they have, it tended to use its his claws for that job. But even mindless demons sometimes prefer variety.

The dead woman’s blouse in shreds, her insides half thrown about, half eaten out – one thing’s for certain, her torso is empty. Her ribs broken out, the streaks from talons visible on them – telling that the hellish creature had imbedded both of his claws inside and then torn the bones out – in order to reach the _yummy_ parts. The demon ate her messily, taking mouthfuls from almost everywhere. The mother’s upper body was stripped of flesh – her breasts eaten, perhaps the monster found that part delectable because he had to devour them after tearing the ribcage. Most of the organs fully eaten, only pieces of gut and lung left.

The girl was most possibly killed second, her position beside the elder woman’s corpse indicates that. Trish smells the urine coming off of the child, yes most possibly second. She wasn’t as lucky as her parent though, being still alive as it took mouthfuls of flesh from her body. The cause of death – blood loss (or shock). Both of her hands missing, one torn from the elbow down, the other hand – bitten off. The marks of biting as random as on her mother, but concentrated on the regions of her limbs. Left leg torn from knee down, the right hanging on tendons and flesh – it hadn’t finished eating the daughter. Unlike the previously inspected victim, the huntress notices that the demon devoured muscle and flesh, ignoring even bone, gobbling them all up. The insides of the little girl left untouched.

Trish turns her head – now the husband. He was the third one to perish, the demon did barely even taste him. A few indications left showing that it took a taste here and there, but the body not maimed as the others. Only the head crushed, that way completely ruining the person’s identity (not that it’s important, really). The demoness then takes her chin in hand, imitating an outward thinking notion. The man was not as tasty or perhaps it preferred women instead. The father’s clothes almost intact, still wearing shoes fit for the season.

Trish pieces the most likely scenario: the husband had returned from work (most possibly, judging from his still recognizable garb), that fact would explain the unlocked door; he was heading towards the kitchen, the rest of his family was watching TV. The two females most possibly heard a sound by the window and decided to inspect it, hence their position behind the sofa, by the French-styled window. The demon had barged in through it, reason to why it is shattered, serving as an entrance–exit point. It crushed the mother’s neck first then swiftly tore her throat with his teeth, splattering the child with blood and she either fainted or became petrified with fear, the latter more believable – considering the information the hunting woman’s gathered. It devoured the little girl then, but stopped short of one of her legs – at the moment the third meal came from the kitchen to check out the faint noise (the TV must have been blaring pretty loudly if he hadn’t heard the glass shatter). His face was bashed in with one slam of a clawed limb and after a few samples, the demon had returned to the more delicious ones. It ignored the girl, seemingly as it hadn’t returned to finish her young flesh, her organs were less tasty, therefore they weren’t touched, but _vice versa_ with the mother... The deviless doubts that the creature ate his full. It kills chaotically – her kinda demon. At that she grins psychotically.

Trish sighs dramatically, really now weren’t these couple of minutes enough for him to piece this thing together? He’s still staring down the bodies intently and wearing a refined look of loss. The demonette turns her body and lounges on the couch.

Dante looks at his partner from the corner of his eyes, she’s sitting in the spot on the piece of the furniture that is magically free of gore specked about the rest of it. She seems to always defy the law of getting dirty, well, most of the time.

The sound of breaking glass fills their ears and the half-breed swiftly abandons the apartment, jumping out the window, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. The half-blood sprints towards the nearest cottage after his prey – and it won’t get away.

The demonette slowly gets up, walking closer to the window. Her moves – methodic and slow. He’ll take his time, she knows. Moving out of the way the now burgundy-dirtied curtain she sits down onto the windowsill. Her legs dangling outside, curtains swaying behind her. The deviless looks leisurely about the narrow,empty cobblestone street. Gaze slipping over intricate gothic lantern-like lights and old bricks. A lovely place, well-fitting as a grotesque with demons in the picture. Truly, very lovely. Her vision stops in straight-line at the other broken window.

Eyes narrowing slightly, let him vent, he’s worst without it. _Remorse_ , such a common word with a complex, indecipherable meaning. And _good_ , Trish thinks, flicking her hair. She’s better off without knowing such basal human trivia. The apathetic huntress turns her attention onto other matters. Mulling over this – angers her, for whatever odd reasons.

Such a _dead_ silent place this is. Seemingly, sounds of shattering glass would rouse suspicion but obviously don’t. No blue lit sirens of _polizei_ ringing in the distance. Perhaps, Trish guesses, it has something to do with it being Friday night. Rarely would any be awake and home at this hour. Europe had that perfect clockwork weekend vibe. Nightlife bustling always, but the weekends – you’d always be able to tell when they come around.

No agonized screeching sounds but the demoness knows even without them – that her partner’s prey won’t perish quickly. Retaliation, ey? That’s not quite Dante’s play, more proof that’s he’s royally pissed. Slashing the throat to an _Antideus_ demon, clever. It won’t die from a wound as such, only his noise would be tamed, but there’s another reason than discreetness. In a twisted way, it is to die in accursed silence the demon once gifted to its victims. Bravo, the demonette salutes the half-devil in her mind, he deserves it for his crooked creativity. And that’s something she appreciates, those rare moments he presents such ability.

A forceful wind reaches her face before it is even caused. The broken window completely shatters under the weight of a tossed out dead demon. Trish sees it in slow motion. Enjoying the moment that way, just like the display of the end of the family laying slain behind her back, before. Glass shards and pieces of what used to be wood paneling fly her way. Slowly, oh so very slowly. She revels in it. The sharp bits hit her and reverberate from her like sound, not damaging her perfect sitting form. A fluctuation of pure demonic power – and the shards change their initial direction, falling onto the road. The hellish corpse finally reaches the cobblestones of the winding path, time returns to its flow. The demoness’s partner jumps out of the house.

“Done, already?” she asks indifferently, eyes watching him like a vulture.

The half-blood nods. He grabs one of the curved long, ridged horns of the _Antideus_. Quite massive indeed, over two meters tall, the demonette assesses. Its body littered with messy, rage telling wounds. She can’t believe it’s Rebellion, no – the cuts are too dented, too small to be made by a sword. The carcass carved up by something different the demon hunter carries.

He unceremoniously starts dragging it, leaving a bloody trail behind. Trish languidly stalks several steps away, looking over her partner. Dante’s all gore. _Red on red_. The deviless visibly shivers. Blood, now that she loves. She loves it on Dante. The hooves on the demon’s goat-like legs _clink_ on the stones. The half-devil’s relaxed heavy steps, the _clinking_ and her _clicking_ high-heels – music to the deviless’s ears.

They walk slowly the empty winding streets. The demonette feels another hellish presence.

The half-breed stops by a long, dank, dead-end alley. He gazes down into its darkness – just what he needed, a perfect place to drop off their _dead_ weight. The feeble demons in the back shifting restlessly, _feeding_ in the garbage, stop their digging.

Trish looks about the narrow building in-between. It fits well into this place of iron coiling vines and old red brick, if not for the over-flowing trash containers. Dante tosses his burden and the body skids deep into the alleyway. The hollow-eyed, twisted jointed, skin-wrapped skeletons of demons move hesitantly closer to it. A feast, such a reprieve after eating rubbish. The demonette puts her hands on the half-blood’s shoulders and stands on her tiptoes.

“ _Bon appetit_ ” Trish whispers into the hunter’s ear.

He can feel the wicked glee in her murmur. She’s far too close for his comfort. Delicious agony. Just as swiftly as she leans onto him, she turns about and walks away. He follows without words, only an amused smirk marring his features. The rain starts pouring, neither abhor it. It will wash away the evidence leading to their prey that is being rapidly devoured. Good, less work for the police. Mysteriously ending bloody trails never were the taskforce strong-side.      

* * *

 

They walk for hours the winding, narrow paths, sharing comforting silence. Finding a suitable stop, they walk into the oval square. Completed with iron benches, same fashioned lantern-like lights, a loud tower-clock counting the hour and a calm, waving river.

Both hunters stalk closer towards the water. The deviless leans onto the intricate, black-iron fence, admiring the city-light lit avenue across the flowing river. Dante shuffles a moment in his pockets, finding two packs of cigarettes (he has to carry hers because her outfit has no pockets in design) and his dark silver lighter with skulls etched in it. He removes two cigarettes from each, takes both into his mouth and lights them.

Handing one to Trish, he studies her expression. The half-devil’s never done that. She takes the smoking slim without a glance, not caring whether he lit it. There’s no moment where she eyes the thing with disgust, but she should. Shouldn’t she? The half-blood shakes his head, he’s overthinking a simple act, there’s obviously nothing intimate about it. He scolds himself for fraying more nerves for such nonsense.

“What now?” the demon hunter asks.

“We head home” the demonette answers still gazing over to the city.

“Had enough of Berlin?”

“No” she takes a drag and exhales “I could never have enough of it... And besides we’re not in Berlin”

“It’s all the same to me” he flashes her a charming smile.

The huntress smirks.

“You’re hopeless”

Dante’s smile lingers for a minute and he talks while smoking.

“I liked it though”

Trish counters knowingly.

“I know”

“Might do this more often” he offers.

“Should”

“So...” exhale “Ya don’t want to stop by somewhere else on the way back?”

“No, no cars. A portal now, not later. I don’t want any more driving”

He shrugs.

“Fine by me” the half-breed then tosses the butt into the water. A minute later his partner follows suit.      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I know, there's no demon breed called the 'Antideus' in the DMC universe. It's something I made up. Basically it's made up from these two words:  
> The prefix anti - means 'against' or 'opposite' of something (e.g. antihero, antibodies...)  
> Deus is Latin for 'god' or 'deity'.


	8. The perfect pentagram

**Chapter eight**

**_The perfect pentagram_ **

 

 

The half-devil’s huddled behind his desk like a covering child. It happened again. And again, and again, and again... Damn that chair and his desk!

Sometimes she’s clad in lace more than leather. Her assaults similar. Though losing their bindings, since she knows he won’t run or object. Sometimes she retreats as the first time, others the demoness walks away seemingly half-content.

The suddenly ringing phone is starling. Still shaken, but he picks it up without changing position. He answers from the floor. The password is told and an offer of a hunt worth kill is made. The demon hunter denies it. The familiar voice is disgruntled, Dante never refuses a slay, he is always in debt. The half-breed hangs up, before the person on the other end inquires about it.

The gears in his head turn about the recent event. He’s still too lost on what to think or feel about it. Her mouth is far too scalding. The half-blood continues to sit empty-minded.

* * *

 

In the morning, by the breakfast table, Trish announces that they have a job. _Oh joy_ , a reprieve. That’s probably what Dante needs at the moment.

Post breakfast, the demonette clicks the button on the electric kettle and settles down on a chair.

Minutes later the button on the apparatus full of boiling water springs back and the demon hunter removes two mugs from a cupboard. He adds coffee into both, trice as much into one of them. Pouring hot water into both, he brings them to the table. Dante sits down and takes the one filled with the weaker brew. The deviless takes the mug closer to herself from the kitchen table that is adorned with an ashtray as a centerpiece.

Her partner adds a dozen teaspoons of sugar into his black coffee. The amount certain to give a man diabetes overnight. The weak and sweet to the point of sickening contrasting with the strong and bitter one. Both hunters light a cigarette each.

“So what’s the hunt?” the half-blood asks, unable to control his curiosity.

“It’s worth our time” she exhales “We’ve got _your_ debts to pay”

“Oh? So what’s the pay?” her answer intrigues him, it suggests that it will be more than enough to pay off what he owes.

“It’s a four digit sum”

“Fuckin’ great! What kind of demon is it? That’s a lot for a demon” the half-breed inquires because they never get more than a three digit sum for a demon. Perhaps it’s a nest his mind offers. He wonders briefly whether it’s an international kill.

“’s not a demon.”

Now that explains it, he thinks. Human assassinations are Trish’s line of work. It’s not for the thrill, no meager human could ever be enough entertainment for either of hunters, but the money is well worth it.

“It’s local” the demoness responds to his unasked question. That explains that they won’t have to move much.

He takes a sip of his painfully sweet, teeth-grinding coffee. Dante leans onto his hand and ponders over the whole situation – he hates assassinations. He doesn’t have the fitting guns for a human kill, that isn’t his forte at all. Using anything of the equipment meant for his own business isn’t fitting. Special bullets and modified weapons meant for demonic slays are more than bad for this. That would leave far too much evidence. And while getting the law on their trail is nothing – with their abilities they could easily _remove_ anyone that would interfere, but getting too much unwanted attention is foolish.

His partner does have the right guns, well at least the demon hunter’s sure she has the sniper stuff. But with their demonic natures that’s far too high class. Not even the dense task forces would ignore such professional work and it’s obvious that no one would hire such pros to assassinate someone not overly important.

“And if you’re wondering about the guns--”

Ah well now he’s getting somewhere. The demonette exhales the cigarette smoke and continues.

“--we won’t need them. It’s going to be a ritualistic kill.”

That is just perfect for the half-blood and it’s perfectly reasonable too. The big cities and their upper class shit... The police are not nearly as good as they’d like to be and rich people are exceedingly good at hiding their secrets. So it won’t matter if the soon-to-be victim doesn’t have any actual connections with occultism – the law is often lacking in well... everything, so just because they can’t prove something, doesn’t mean that it isn’t legit. Another good thing about their location. The half-breed concludes that unfortunately (or fortunately) the big city is also the den of demons. And it’s not only because of the large populations, the high-level ones are smart enough to know that with the crime level so high in such urban places, their feasts will _always_ end up as those unsolved cases. And there’s also that big plus that Trish likes that fancy-shmancy ritualistic torture stuff. _Likes_ – is not the word for it...

Dante takes a drag and moves to another aspect that interests him, hoping that maybe he’ll be able to know more about this specific thing. Trish simply _loves_ keeping details away from him and most of the time, he knows, that that is for the best. Before he can actually ask, the deviless continues herself.

“He’s a businessman”

Well at least he knows the gender – that’s a start.

“So, what does he do?”

“He’s a CEO of some sort of business that serves as an in-between-ner between companies that does some completely irrelevant stuff. Which the companies could do themselves, but because of some stupid reason or the other uses another firm for it.”

The half-devil nods and smashes the smoldering butt into the ashtray. He knows of such companies, something about ‘relations’ or some law shit that neither interests him nor matters in this case. He addresses his still smoking companion again.

“Crossed the road for some big-shots, ey? Did he do anything bad?” The hunter got more than lucky to have gathered this much info on the subject but insists on pressing his luck. Hey, you can never know...

“Obviously. Not that I know of. Got in someone’s way, that’s for sure. Also--” she finishes her morning smoke with a big exhale of the last bitter breath from the dying cigarette “--he’s involved in necromancy”

Well the first one is definitely obvious and Dante feels idiotic (not a rare feeling, not in the least) for even asking. If Trish caught wind of the kill, then most certainly it’s been commission by some high-rise people. Ah, well now as for the latter, it’s a comforting idea that maybe this person is closer to their sphere of trade. The ‘vic’ had meddled with some stuff he shouldn’t have and that’s more than enough to soothe Dante into a ‘he-deserved-it’ mood. 

* * *

 

The demon hunters park their bikes in an underground parking lot of a mall just an hour short of midnight, a few blocks away from the destined building. It’s pretty packed with various vehicles just like it should be in any center that has a decent nightlife going on.

They enter the shopping emporium blending well with the colorful crowd and exit it via the main entrance.    

They pass the thinning masses in the well-lit streets. Dante doesn’t inquire about the specifics of their destined entrance and details of the sort. He knows that with Trish it is all planned spot on, even if he’s not in on it.

* * *

 

Standing some distance away from the skyscraper, which glass windows catch the obnoxious street lights, the half-blood questions the demoness.

“So how are we going to get in?”

“Through a back entrance” she flicks her hair and answers non-informatively. He winces at her disinterested tone. Misleading her into thinking that he doubts her judgment is not his cause. The half-breed hopes that the demonette won’t assume that he is.

“Aren’t there any cameras by it?”

“No. Our job is not someone who ‘plays fair’, so his personal entrance is not under surveillance. The building’s empty – so we won’t greet anyone on our way to the top floor”

He looks surprised.

“You mean to say that all of this fucking building doesn’t have any cameras?”

The deviless snorts.

“Of course not. It’s loaded with cameras, even the parking lot has them”

Ah, so that’s why they parked in a nearby mall. Well he figured that much before.

“’Cept for that private entrance and the man’s office”

“So how are we going to get into that damned office? We’re not going to climb up and down this building, are we?!” The hunter unknowingly puts on the ‘I’m ruffled’ expression. Because really, devil-triggering and simply flying there is not an option. Like he needs an urban legend pinned on his ass. ‘Oh look, mommy, it’s Batman’ – yeah, no. Because _nananananananana Dante!_ – does not sound good.

Trish turns to him and glares.

“Honestly the nerve...” She mutters.

Sighing she says.

“No, Dante we’re not going to do any climbing today.”

The pointless loitering does not sit well with the demoness and so she beckons the half-devil to follow.

“Come on”

He stalks after her hurriedly, knowing that it is best he now remain quiet and just go with the flow.

* * *

 

They walk through the building that is eerily silent, same business-like atmosphere in all of the well-lit corridors. Trish briefly stops by the empty security room to check whether everything is as the deviless needs it to be. Her inspection proves that everything is set and they move onwards to the top-floor.

Dante finds it ridiculous – the total lack of any human presence and the offline security system. As they ride the lift he even questions his partner about it. The demon hunter’s wary because this setting is more than their client could have managed to pull off. The demonette confirms his suspicions – this is the work of their ‘vic’. It is preset this way because due to the human ‘not playing fair’ (as she has mentioned before), there should be no evidence that he is in this place. Something about it being illegal, related with the CEO’s work and of course money – Trish offers with disinterest. Well that does make sense, the half-blood muses.

* * *

 

The top-floor hosts the same spirit as the whole skyscraper – the businessy look. The hunter finds it repulsing, he never fancied these type of buildings or what they represent. He feels disinterest and simply tags along (that’s his purpose in this mission). So when the demoness opens the fine, shiny mahogany door, the golden tablet on it does not catch his vision. The half-breed shakes his head, he probably doesn’t even want to know who the soon-to-be-a-deadman is.    

The businessman lifts his head quickly in a startled manner at their intrusion, but he doesn’t manage to even utter a single word as Trish glides through the air reappearing behind the ‘vic’. Her hand lands on the juncture of the man’s neck and shoulder, sending a surge of electricity into his system. Dante knows that it’s barely a blur in the human’s eyes but due to the demon hunter’s inhuman vision he can clearly see her fluid movements.

The male is in his thirties, Dante assesses. He’s got a normal build – the type that indicates an occasional visit to the gym, an emphasis on the occasional. The type of man that doesn’t need to put much effort into his physique, he’s got the money to compensate. And any greedy babe would like to date (or fuck) a guy like that. As long as the thanks-for-the-fuck gifts would be worth their time.

His hair is dark and slickened back, black thin-frame glasses on his face, clad in an expensive suit. Overall there’s something very repelling about the man – the demon hunter can’t put his finger on it but that doesn’t really matter. Besides it’s quite befitting the man’s career, he never liked business people anyway.

The half-devil appreciates her method. The way her power has to affect the prey has to be perfect in order to gain the wanted result. It has to be directed to a certain point of the nervous system and the amount has to be just right. Affecting the ability to move, yet not damaging any receptors – for the feeling of pain to be unaltered. Oh, and also not to make the ‘vic’ black out (even to prevent that for the future funnsies – aka mutilation and/or torture) nor to kill it. In the hunter’s mind that is much classier than any use of toxin or a combination of some pressure points.

The deviless pushes the papers off the desk, making them scatter about the room chaotically. Talk about a thunderstorm, he adds amused. She turns about and now her front is in Dante’s line of view. He catches the demoness’s jacket that’s tossed his way and he continues with the observation. She’s got one of his most favorite corsets on, well if truthfully, then he likes all of them (quite a lot), but this one’s got some _red_. The breast area is of blood-red satin trimmed with black lace; the waist-part is from black leather with a crisscrossed tie on the side; and below it, there’s some more red satin and some lengthier lace. All in all, it’s simply _delicious_.

Trish grasps the ribbon on the side and pulls it, taking one of the loosened lapels in hand as she opens the corset. Inside it is adorned with many stilettos and various scalpels, and of course other instruments of pain. The demonette removes the outer leather layer and rolls it out onto the table, in order to study her dangerous array of choices. Oh yes, _delicious_ and _deadly_ – Dante chuckles in his mind.

It’ll take her quite a few to make her pick, he knows. And so he diverts his attention into investigating the room and its contents. The half-blood needs to shift his mind away from the growing anxiety he experiences. Well fuck, he can’t help but feel the bout of remorse, and it hasn’t even begun yet. That’s nothing new – this unease. The half-breed knows that some humans deserve to _die_ and some demons deserve to _live_ , but the fact doesn’t change a thing. Maybe the demonette won’t make this very bloody, just for him. Hell, he really is a nuisance. Isn’t he? Trish really should leave him to his own devices. Dante shakes his head, thoughts like these should be avoided at all costs.

The office is no different from the building. Furnished in the minimalistic style, all plastic, glass and metal. There’s nothing relatively homey about it. The room is barely lit, only with an eerie blue neon-like light giving sight to any human eyes. Walls clean and void of any decorations. Only a lone abstract painting hanging, which is probably worth a lot more than it really should be. The huge windows are closed off with shutters – that’s right, this man shouldn’t be here and no one will see the marvelous spectacle that his demonic partner will present.

The hunter looks over the table. There are only things related to the man’s work, nothing else, no character at all. There aren’t any photos, not of a wife or children, not even one of a significant other. The half-devil even peers down, he sees no wedding band on the paralyzed man’s fingers – that only solidifies his theory. It lessens the guilt, if anything, the fact that there won’t be a mourning wife or children after.

The deviless pushes off a laptop onto the ground from the modern, strangely shaped desk. She sits down on it, crosses her legs and stares at the businessman in the big, black leather chair. Those ‘boss’ chairs will probably never get out of fashion, the demon hunter concurs.

The eyes of the ‘vic’ follow and bore into the demoness. The half-breed watches the man intensely. At that gaze, something suddenly turns very green and then afterwards Dante’s vision momentarily dyes everything in red. The way that cocksucker looks at _his_ Trish! Without a speck of fear, only lust with which the huntress is being checked out. How many women had sat on the man’s desk this way? How many had been sprawled on it? Maybe even forced... The hunter manages to relax. Smirking, he thinks that this woman, sitting on the desk, is oh so very different from all of those. His small momentary revelation eradicates any feeling of guilt that he previously experienced. Dante leans back onto one of the walls, now he can’t wait to see how this goes.    

Trish picks out a scalpel out of her sharp arsenal. Her ruby nails glinting along the silvery surface of the tool. The demoness holds up the scalpel vertically in her elegant hand. The man’s eyes widen in unadulterated fear. _Good, good_ – Dante thinks. He sees the blue electric shocks that come off of the demonette’s raised hand. The area is filled with the crackling of her lightning-like power. It takes her awhile to heat the steel, ‘till it’s unmercifully burning hot. She uses her energy in an interesting way – it is firstly inserted into the scalpel, the excess visible in those blue sparks, then when the tool is of the right temperature it is completely drained out. The idea is to cauterize the wounds, not to shock the ‘vic’.

With a swift move the steel lands onto the man’s clothing. Buttons flying in every direction. She’s careful not wound the man yet, her canvas have to be untainted with error, the half-blood knows. The deviless sets down her ‘brush’ and takes the separated cloths into her hands, ripping them away from the businessman’s chest. Her red talon topped hand even strokes it. Dante chokes on an angry breath, he hides the irregularity in his breathing pattern with trained ease.

The scalpel is in her grasp again. The leather chair is kicked back – to give the demoness more room. She starts ‘drawing’ a round shape onto the exposed skin. Green (the half-devil thinks they’re green) eyes reflect pain. The movement is slow, precise – so it’s difficult for the hunter to get his mind off the painter metaphor he continuously used before.

The perfect circle is complete and Trish sets back to observe her handiwork. The haft-breed evaluates that it’s so _perfect_ and that it will most certainly leave the investigators of this murder in confusion. Trish cuts two more lines into the circle. Making it look like an anarchy symbol. She slowly, ever so impossibly slowly, adds three more. Taking away the scalpel a couple of times to heat it to the wanted temperature.

The five-pointed star is complete. The perfect pentagram. Crafted by the perfect woman, Dante muses. The agonized eyes are indescribable. Not like the demon hunter cares, it’s only an observation. The scalpel is swiped clean into the ruined brand suit and put back into its rightful place.

The deviless picks a thick needle-like tool with an ivory handle, similar to an awl used for boot making or sewing, just a lot more refined. She stabs the man into the five points of the pentacle and the holes bleed. It isn’t heated, therefore there are five nice blood trails on the slightly tanned skin. They’re not deep enough to be fatal, the half-blood concludes.

A different steel weapon is taken, this one very fine. There’re more of those lovely electric lights. She continues working and ‘draws’ symbols into the circle. The hunter’s familiar with them, enough to maybe even recall where he had seen them, but their meanings have long since escaped Dante’s mental grasp. The cleaning ‘ritual’ is completed and the stiletto rests in the embrace of its leather binding.

The demoness turns to her halfling partner. She calls his name. He’s so entranced with her show (less gory than expected but intricate as always), he replies with in inarticulate humming sound but his mind is far too off to attempt to understand her requesting tone.

“Give me the dagger or whatever it is that you carry” she knows he’s carrying some sort of different, unknown to her, weapon – with which he cut up the demon in Germany. The percentage that he isn’t is quite small.

The demonette’s tone is not questioning in the least. Fuck, she knows him well, doesn’t she? Dante thinks and throws her the requested blade. He’s always gunned to teeth, something that will not change.

The deviless catches effortlessly, as expected, and lifts her form off the office desk. She looks over the table and notices an undiscarded (by her previous item sifting) box of tissues. Plucking a few she walks around the big chair with the conscious, comatose man in it. The huntress covers the businessman’s mouth with the tissues. The half-devil tilts his head, intrigued.

The demoness kneels slightly and brings the unsheathed dagger through the chair into the man’s back. Careful not to ruin her beautiful work, she doesn’t press the blade enough to pierce the front.

The dying man’s eyes are unfocused and shaking. The sound of cracking plastic casing of the chair, the filling, the leather, the fine material of his clothes and the ripping flesh, the sickening crunch of the spine – the sounds entrance the demon hunter. The way she moves the blade is slow and it sinks through as if it’s all butter. And to Dante’s account he doesn’t even blink. As the businessman’s orbs become glassy and hollow, there’s only a twisted satisfaction and overlooked repetition of _his_ when referring to her.

Trish removes her hand from the dead man’s maw, but not before brushing his lips with the wipes. Just in case if there indeed was any blood rushing out. With a small thunderstorm the tissue is disintegrated. The demoness returns the hunter’s pristine weapon and fastens back in place the leather compartment.

She spares a glance his way and departs in silence. He follows and is still somewhat strangely pleased with the fact that this is not nearly the worst she could have done. Vast imagination on how to cause pain is not something the demonette lacks, not at all.

Closing the door behind them the half-devil needlessly swipes his glowed hand over the handle. She wasn’t here and neither was he.

* * *

 

The demon hunters tread the still dark streets at something past 4 am. It’ll take them a couple of hours of this leisure-walk in order to reach the mall. It’s the 24/7 type of center, much to the half-blood’s _yay_. Perhaps, Dante thinks, just maybe, they’ll get some pizza there (or something else for breakfast). If his partner agrees to it, that is. He gazes at her out of the corner of his eye, she seems in good spirits. There is reason for him not to annihilate his hopes yet. Just no olives, please.                        

 


	9. Don’t go, whatever you do – don’t stay

**Chapter nine**

**_Don’t go, whatever you do – don’t stay_ **

_It is said that the boundary between sleep and wakefulness is a very fine line_. Dante wants to bitchslap whoever that had said it.

The demon hunter could always distinguish the difference between his dreams and reality (although he does not deny the chances of enemies casting very realistic illusions; he’s clever enough now to not overlook such possibilities). He often wishes for his dreams to be real and for many a happening in reality to be nothing more than a terrifying nightmare.

However he isn’t lucky enough, because the previous event had not been one of his dreams. Despite how familiar with one it seemed.

* * *

 

At these times, right about now, Dante yearns for the past usual or any dream shit, really! Because anything is better. The usual ones he’d get before things got difficult, filled with hot, faceless babes (less R-rated than bragged about but still not for any kiddie eyes) or even the nonsensical jumbled vomit his subconscious would produce – either would be a reprieve.

Drifting somewhere between slumber and wakefulness – sucks cock! Because it is oh so fan- _fucking_ -tastic to be in this shitstorm of feelingsand self-loathing. It’s fucking peachy, really, to remember and mull over and over, over all of his failures, faults and shortcomings. And of course any other fuck-ups that are in-between. That’s not like Dante – _surprise, surprise_ – what the fuck do they know? Because when you’re the _hero_ – you’re not supposed to be this pathetic and useless, not supposed to be a whiny tart. The half-devil snorts, yeah right, if any of that crap were true his life ‘d be that much easier.

And if you look at the whole picture, not from some biased point, but really look at it, it’s fucking _pretty_. It doesn’t matter how much you’ll change and build your future because the past is there to make you who you are. Running away is futile, just hope that no one will ever know...

Every person you fucking disappointed, every person you fucking failed to protect, every innocent bystander that for your own selfish need you call collateral damage and all those _humans_ killed under the alias of Tony Redgrave just for shit and giggles... All of those come to haunt you – and there’s no ‘in the end’ for the half-breed because it’s like this every moment just like this one.

Oh how could he forget? Of course he can’t, that’s one of his priorities on his remorse list. But for the sake of sanity – _take a deep breath Dante_ , he tells to himself – and continue shirking blame onto mommy. Because why did she have to die and why is he the one to blame for it? And woman you should have kept your legs tight shut! It would have made everything much better... And one, two, _fucking_ three – it ain’t helpin’ much. Because most certainly his rarely evident rational mind doesn’t pass this off. ‘Course it’s his fault, his half-breed conscience tells him so.

And of course that’s not all! _Hei-ho! We know! You’re fucked!_ The fragmented prosecuting voices sneer in the hunter’s mind. Vergil... Another priority in that longer-than-life list. And there’s no denying that Dante’s guilty, he knows it, maybe far too well. He always had mixed feelings for his older brother: borderline malicious hatred and unconditional brotherly love. There was also a fraction of envy in that equation. Key factor in thinking about his twin – that it is no longer ‘is’ just an empty ‘was’ now. Damn that Vergil and his twisted ideals! No matter how much the younger tried, he could never defeat the elder. Even though at times he had the purest intent to kill his brother, he had never actually managed to win, much less murder Vergil. And when he actually did, it wasn’t even deliberate. Nelo _Angelo_ – what a fucking joke. As if Dante’s life wasn’t already a circus of constant buttfuckery, no, fate just had to present his unrecognizable, brainwashed big bro and let the half-blood kill him. Never managing it when he wanted to but succeeding when being completely oblivious. _Ignorance is bliss_ – well, as long as it lasts. And it didn’t last long enough!

If compared with his brother, Hell just looking at it all from the right angle is enough to tell that he’s simply the lesser evil. At best he’s the antihero, at worst he’s the motherfucking antagonist.      

And all of that is nothing because thoughts about _her_ overshadow it all. And fuck as if the demoness is more of a reason to feel remorse. It shouldn’t be so but it is. And every regret, faceless or otherwise, is nothing compared to her. It’s all shoved to the back of his conscious into some trunk and simply overpowered by her sheer essence.

The worst part of it all is that somewhere deep in his mind the half-devil knows that if one day the demonette comes and says ‘Hey, Dante, lets slay some humans and lets become the rulers of the world!’, he’ll say ‘yes’ without a second’s thought. A small glimmer of hope somewhere in his head hopes with all its might that that won’t ever happen.

And _his_ Trish... Wow, wow stop the train here! _His_? How long has he been referring to her like that? _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!!!_ The Hell is wrong with him?! That’s something he can’t and mustn’t ever do, even dare to think about the deviless with such possessiveness. It’s wrong and completely off limits, the only thing he tries his best to avoid. Well, shows what a good job he’s doing at it.

A string of curses overtake the demon hunter’s mind. He scrunches the sheets in his firsts. Tossing and turning won’t do any good, he knows that by heart. It won’t stop the need of a strong beverage filled bottle and a few dozens of cigarettes either.

Trying hard to think of something else, rather than these depressive thoughts. He concentrates into the coldness of the black silken sheets beneath and around him. Tangled in his bed he contemplates the coolness of his bedroom in this hotter-than-expected spring. And whether it is so because of the off-putting topics his mind is so keen on overthinking or some other reason, the hunter doesn’t know. Dante focuses into the deadly silence that surrounds him and into the darkness over-window at this whatever-time-it-is now.

* * *

Time ticks by and the dark sky behind the window frame does not change. Not like that’s really any of the half-breed’s concern because his mind is finally dyeing itself in black. He sighs in contentment, he turns his head and the sound of his pillow is reminiscent of footsteps in snow. The pressure on his ears similar to that of watery depths and it is more than welcome. That’s a sign of the long awaited sleep’s arrival.

There is someone in the corridor, the fact does not rouse him. He’s not sure whether he hears or feels it because the presence is familiar to the bone. Dante knows those high-heeled steps, but in his murky mind he doesn’t question the choice of footwear or their bizarre presence. The half-blood’s far too off to his dream lala-land to understand the importance of these facts. As long as that presence is not heading for the front door – it’s quite alright.

Faster than the hunter’s groggy mind can register a weight is atop him. Actually, the door is opened and closed, demon-fast footsteps fall and a weight is set beneath his sheets. Too fast, too strange – his mind can’t keep up. Too slippery, too wet. The scent of spilt demon and _human_ blood engulfs him. The ‘how’ is too difficult but the blood is too fresh, too slippery or perhaps it’s some sorcery. He can only stare wide-eyed. Too real, too dreadful. Wanted, unwanted. The half-devil sees without turning his eyes down, her favorite black, faux leather, lightning shaped corset. Everything is covered in blood. Too much, too strong. Not congealed, too slippery... A lone thought escapes.

_Don’t go, whatever you do – don’t stay._

The demonic tongue is in his mouth violating, not new but still new in his psyche every time it pushes its way inside. It’s more than disturbing, when he realizes – the tangy, sweet taste is blood. And what’s worse – he likes it.

He’s lost. This isn’t a dream. How frightening that idea is. Although explored not once in his sinfully pleasing dreams, which leave only stained sheets in their wake.  

In Dante’s inhuman vision there are contours and silhouettes in the darkness. It’s not ‘vampiric’ in any sense, so the dark still holds many mysteries of its own. Her form is moonlit. The demonic eyes are cold and unyielding – analyzing. He prays to whatever that he wouldn’t flunk this test. The sharp nails are ruby red or maybe ebony black, it’s hard to tell because her fingers are covered in blood. The hunter doesn’t know what he should focus his vision into. Should he watch her mesmerizing lidded eyes – a very difficult task, or should he look somewhere beyond and try to avoid her judging gaze... The half-devil truly doesn’t know. What is right or wrong – all of those are only assumptions. Turning theory into practice has a very high price, he can only hope that it won’t be something that will lay his world to ruins.        

The deviless’s teeth are at his neck. They’re sharp and demonic – that’s what his senses dictate. Not much different from fangs, actually the demon hunter corrects, they are exactly that. Painfully scraping above his jugular vein and with all the power to tear it. Not like he would perish from such. Dante fantasizes about Trish being a vampire and finds it a hard time trying to escape from his metaphors. That’s nothing new, his day-dreams are always clingy like this.

The way her tongue caresses the wound, in sensation, is akin to disinfecting alcohol being poured onto damaged skin. It’s weird but somehow the half-blood distantly likes it. The demonette then pulls away and brings her eyelash-drown eyes back to inspect him. The shaken man counters it with his best poker-faced expression. That’s probably not much because her grasp on his mind is tight enough to see through his disguises. Hell, he’s not that much good of an actor, barely making it a fifty-fifty when it comes to playing on people.        

The half-breed finds the feeling otherworldly despite how used to it he is. The touch of leather soaked in blood is much different from when he wears the combo. That’s probably because it’s never on another person and rubbing onto his naked flesh. She feels cold and her garb only intensifies the sensation. Trish’s full weight atop him is miniscule. As she leans back to kiss him, it seems rushed and agitated, not like he’s very knowledgeable with the differences though. Her clothed breasts keep sliding across his chest – deliberately or not – he doesn’t know and it’s more believable to be the latter. His more than sinful mind is not helping the matter entirely.

A sudden movement and he can’t stop the startled jerk of his body. His eyes roll into the back of his skull, eyelids clenching shut. Brain in disarray, arguing fervently because what he believes, what he claims to know, obviously differ from simple facts. In denial but that denial is hard to keep in place because her leg brushes against his clothed crotch again. Is it time to pray again now? Because the hunter’s not sure whether pure resolve can help him in not failing this test. Prove that you can, _prove it_. She better not do that again.

Dante’s face is willed to be indifferent. The demoness’s teeth victimize his lower lip. She continues the sliding notion of her leg, the bloodied leather assisting in the movement’s fluidity. But it’s definitely not helping him. Doesn’t she know, he’s not above it? He’s above a lot of things but his control over his body is not great enough to stop it from responding. The half-devil flattens his lower half forcefully into the mattress because what’s more – he has to deal with the tempting notion of bucking into the agonizing friction. And that’s not all, uncontrollable shudders that try to overtake his form are just that – exceedingly hard to control, borderline impossible actually.

She’s not going to stop it soon, is she? The half-blood knows, despite how much his psyche protests, his body is reaching its limits. The die-hard fact, the secret, that he wants this – wants _her_ , will only hasten the process. The only goal of proving to his partner that he’s safe and different will shatter. But the half-devil’s not going to give-up yet. No, he’s only a man and this is only biology, a bodily reaction, right? He’s going to use this excuse, despite the probability of this last resort working being close to zero. Trish is a genius, cunning and brilliant, but even she won’t know what he’s trying to cover-up... Will she? And what is he trying to hide anyway, the half-breed doesn’t want to think about it. If he won’t acknowledge the truth it will simply cease to exist. Hey, it had worked before, hadn’t it?

Dante’s mind wanders and it helps to stall the inevitable response. The demonette notices it, she always does. And he feels a knee punishing him painfully to that sensitive part of his body. A breath is stolen, the gaze that had wandered to the walls beyond her attractive form returns. This pain is much better than the sensation from before. It’s too late to celebrate because as the hunter’s attention is drawn back towards the deviless and she continues the monotone movement. Just this time with added pressure.

The demon hunter’s physique is on fire. He feels the tension setting in his loins. The words ‘no’ and ‘fuck’ repeat by the hundred. The half-devil’s eyes are closed shut, he can’t bear to witness the dissatisfaction, repulsion and disappointment that is sure to be written all over her beautiful face. This experiment is a failure. He fists the black sheets and his elongated demonic fingernails pierce the skin of his palms – he doesn’t notice it. He can’t stand this fear either, so he looks at her from the barely opened seams of his eyelids. Apathetic and void of anything – her look of old, it is the only thing her expression represents. And that’s to be expected, even if he doesn’t expect it. Trish rarely betrays any emotion she doesn’t wish for anyone to see.

His whole body is blazing like the sun. The smell of sweat and blood in this context is new to his senses. It’s getting difficult to not push back into her leg and shamelessly hump it like a dog. He is so, so hard and it’s more than embarrassing, it’s horrifying. What will tomorrow bring... Let the world end now because he doesn’t want to know.

His length is quivering and Dante can’t do anything about it. The throbbing is only intensifying. Climbing fast towards the dreaded climax. The half-blood tries to activate his brain because it is keen on setting in a complete ‘off’ state. This is only going to get worse and that terrible outcome is rapidly approaching. Unless the half-breed finds a way to stop this.

Somehow the deviless feels more agitated, there’s more shifting of weight and her eyes are more unforgiving than usual. It’s probably her way of showing all of the negativity that this brings her. Disgrace – something like that is pinning itself to his image in her head. The want, the need of many things is heavy on the half-breed. His breathing is erratic and he can’t help but pant. The thought process is slowed to the point that it’s like an act of turning a single book page that takes eons to be completed.

Her kisses are trice as frequent, they’re hasty and it’s as if she wants to gouge out a reaction. The hunter knows he’s failed enough, he’s not planning on ruining whatever they have between them more. Although somewhere there is the deeply buried thought – he selfishly wants this and _more_. Immeasurably egoistic but for Trish, Dante’s able to be altruistic.

Gorgeous blue eyes narrow but the demon hunter doesn’t see it due to unauthorized slight tossing of his head on the pillow and more often than not closed eyelids. Her weight abandons him, so unexpectedly and swiftly that it leaves only fluttering silken sheets. Unconsciously it’s a bittersweet victory. But he hadn’t finished onto her.

The half-devil’s tight underwear are close to ripping he realizes. As if an invisible string is cut with the absence of her presence his body instantly arches upwards uncomfortably. Knees bent and legs sprawled beside him, his physique forming an arc that puts quite a strain on his spine. A groan escapes Dante. He’s so aroused that it hurts. Never had this phenomenon felt so impossible to withstand.

Desperately trying not to relieve his pulsating length. Not to use his damned hand that is itching to do it. It would be so easy to dash to the shower and find his release. He’s aware that there’s no way that the demoness would know. But he can’t despite it. In her mind it would be so distasteful, so low and even now he’s not sure how he’ll face her. The half-blood’s body flops down like lead. Heavy and worn, that doesn’t matter because the desire to cease this uncomfortable hardness is more than exceedingly great. The half-breed flexes his claws, clenching them hard into fists, until they bleed again. There has to be a sensation stronger than this. Pain is the first on his list but it’s insufficient. And even if he’ll tear at his whole form it won’t help.

Just quickly, just for a bit. No need for a shower the half-devil can do this here. No, fuck this! Despite how tempting it is, he has more will than this. Teeth hurting from the incessant grinding, he sighs dissatisfied. Even if for himself, he can prove it, he’s above these trifle human matters.

* * *

 

Sleep arrives, even if royally late. When Dante’s body’s finally relaxed and overexerted, although probably more than upset. He passes into the territory of slumber when his confused and overdriven mind can no longer keep up with the stress.

The view over-window is clouded and bleak.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dante in a nutshell.
> 
> As much as I know Tony Redgrave (an alias Dante used, set before the first DMC game) killing humans is not canon. That's my own idea when playing with Dante's psychological character.
> 
> A reminder to all of the reader's – this is Dante's POV, therefore these are his thoughts and not necessarily facts.


	10. Luce and Ombra, Ebony and Ivory

**Chapter ten**

**_Luce and Ombra, Ebony and Ivory_ **

 

 

The morning is clouded and dreary. Dante’s wary and tired. His rest is almost nonexistent because any hour that goes before the twelfth according to him is a very, very early morning. Most of it is spent in bed because he’s too skittish to leave his no longer sacred sanctuary. Spending his time doing something that’s far more agonizing than any physical pain now – thinking.

Everything that the half-blood’s been so confused about: his own immovable perception, actions according to it and the fey situations – are all clear now as if on a cloudless day. And the revelation brings no joy, only a sickening feeling. He thinks he now knows all the reasons behind these twisted happenings. The half-breed repeats the saying ‘ignorance is bliss’ and finds it more than fucking true. Because when the dark clouds of confusion are blown away he doesn’t feel any better. Just much, much worse.

The demon hunter doesn’t feel the presence of the demoness in the building of the shop. That does not matter because if he exits his refugee it would not be the first if she just jumps out of some corner and he’s none the wiser to foresee it.

* * *

 

He creeps in the house like a shadow, frightened by every sound. Wandering like a roach that’s afraid to be squished. Breakfast – denied, the half-devil doesn’t think that he could handle it now. The previous feeling is proven to be truthful – Trish is not in the dome. It’s more than better this way, although he’s had an epiphany it has nothing to do with making it doable to look her in the eyes. What if he does something unthinkable, what if he oversteps his boundaries, just like he wanted to last night? But this time the impulsive things are nowhere near those sinfully pleasing needs of before. They’re just as difficult to deny, though.

Seating down onto the floor behind his desk he continues with thinking everything over. No, the truth won’t disappear if he reviews it again and again, but there’s nothing else to do. This is one of his safe-places, Hell no place is safe anymore. And it’s not because of his partner. No, no place is safe from the undeniable truth. The half-blood takes shelter behind the office table anyway, as if the few wooden panels can save him from any unstoppable calamity of great measures.                

The half-devil needs to reassure himself again. So he peers over the piece of furniture he’s hiding against. Looking over to the coffee table by the couch and the wall his weaponry rests upon. Trish knows him well enough, so she’s sure that he won’t check her room to see whether everything is in place. The deviless loves her stuff so she shouldn’t leave it behind if her leave is permanent. But he believes that it’s just a superficial thing though. Should the need arise, the demonette will abandon her material possessions, she’s not the type to be sentimental about anything.    

The demoness had left to blow off steam. Atop the coffee table lie her guns – Luce and Ombra. On the wall his own – Ebony and Ivory are missing. That’s the huntress’s way of saying that she’ll be back. Dante somehow feels that she’s regretting this decision. Her assurance meant for him hinders her perfect image of independence. Now he knows exactly why she bothers and it’s not an endearing reason in any sense.

Independence... That’s what he tried to give her. Cutting his unconscious possessiveness to a minimum. In the end creating an illusionary sense of independence that he thinks she was well aware of, even if he wasn’t.

It’s not like the demon hunter hadn’t had any pieces of the puzzle before, only that his mind had tried to cover-up the whole picture for his sake. Fuck, he is an egoistical bastard, it’s just that this is a whole new level of that. His temporary peace of mind was created by overlooking something vastly more important than his inability of carrying such burdens. That was the reason his brain simply refused to ponder over the more than gloomy and fucked up reality. The hunter’s happiness came first and the huntress’s inner persona was shoved completely off the list. He only cared for the things he could mend, things he could provide. It shouldn’t have been so! He shouldn’t have been so superficial! But it just wasn’t the case, now was it? He felt joy that she chose to tread this path together with him and everything that could have clouded that was simply ignored and overlooked.

The demonette’s brain works differently than his, therefore she probably knew this all along. Otherwise why would she have stayed here for so long? Even the seemingly minuscule act of leaving her guns behind so obviously and taking his instead – it wasn’t meant to calm her mind. No, it’s all for him.

Dante swears out loud and fishes in the drawers of his desk. Taking out a bottle of vodka from one of them. This is too much for his sober mind to handle. There’s a limit to his self-blame but it’s been long since reached.

So where was he? Oh right... It’s clear now, when he thinks about it, there really are no reasons for her to care for his sanity so much. Ah, but that’s only if you scratch the surface and leave it be. In reality it’s now quite so obvious why she chooses to do all the things that seem to contrast so brightly with her character.

_Pride_. That’s a sin Trish possesses. Such a prideful creature couldn’t for the sake of her just leave a debt unpaid. The half-breed knows how much she hates to have an unpaid debt. To her that’s a tie, one that ties you down to the person you owe something. And for someone who values their freedom as much as her, such a bond is nothing short of a suffocating noose.

Dante has a perfect example of the deviless’s way of repaying her debts, he had been and still is a recipient of it. Back then, not so long ago, on that godforsaken Mallet Island, he’d witnessed it. The half-blood was simply too stupid to fully comprehend the complex action at that time. He saved her life even as she was his enemy... A-and... And then... Trish sacrificed herself to save his reckless ass from Mundus. From an attack that would have rendered the demon hunter unable to continue, that is if he would have been able to survive it. It was only wishful thinking that had led the half-devil to believe for so long that it was an act based on some human nonsense: compassion, gratitude or whatever. It was simply her paying him back, no emotions behind it. An eye for an eye sort of thing. Perhaps there was also an unconscious want to die. Clearly she wasn’t happy there – to put it in a childishly simple way. But it’s not like the hunter can describe what the demoness felt.

And that isn’t all though. By killing the demon-world overlord the demon hunter gave the demonette freedom, he gave her the choice to flee from her past existence. Oh and this thought is not for stroking his ego. No, he never gave killing Mundus much thought, but it’s clear that Trish became and stayed his partner for a hefty reason. In her psyche that was probably it – paying him back. And well if it wasn’t it, then the deviless should have left when the predicament ceased to bring mutual benefit. Dante’s sure as hell he isn’t hugely beneficial either, so there had to be more causes to it. Trish isn’t masochistic enough to over-lengthen paying back what she thinks she owes. The half-blood believes she has done that ages ago (in her understanding, because in Dante’s mind she had never owed him a damned thing). But it’s foolish to believe a singular reason to be enough for anything the demoness does. She’s too complex for any mind to even attempt to explain.

If his uses are only the meager things he provides her, then that’s something she’s more than capable of getting on her own. And if there’s anything that’s so special about him, then a short visit here and there would suffice. But no, Trish lives with him and all the other reasons behind it are more than painful to think about.        

At the very beginning he was like a tourniquet for the huntress and that is why she followed him. But later the hunter’s need for her became so great that she stayed for him more than for herself. Although it was only a component of her reasoning and all the other parts are connected to that fucker – Mundus. At the name Dante experiences something he had recently and suddenly remembers clearly something she had said before. Although what the deviless was talking about had long since abandoned the demon hunter.

_He sat in his chair, legs propped on the desk in the office, as she casually leaned on it and said with seeming disinterest, while her nail traced invisible patterns in the wood. “At first everything is colored in envy – dark emerald green, then instantly wrath dyes your vision in sanguine red”._

The half-devil thought that he had understood what she meant. But only in the recent happenings had he experienced it in vivid literality. The Hell lord’s name is now intertwined with the two monochromes that dye everything in his sight.

The half-breed tries to breathe – to calm himself, unsuccessfully.  

The demonette practically oozes sexuality (Hell, she’s the actual embodiment of it), something that any succubus would be jealous of. She loves attention but any pestering individuals are viewed with unadulterated disgust and loathing. And while Trish can throw hinting and insulting jabs at everyone, a trait she probably inherited from the half-devil, she’s just as him – all bark, no bite. Dante realizes that he never really analyzed her strange asexuality. If she really did have any occasional needs, then she could’ve just satisfied them during her away times with any human, demon or whatever. It’s sickening to think about her and someone else but that’s the truth – she could have, although as far as the half-blood knows that never happened. So why in that adamant asexuality did she come to him? Especially if it wasn’t so, then the demoness could have had anyone, quite literally. But the huntress directed all that on the demon hunter. A test was only partial and there’s an explanation that curls his guts in nausea, which has nothing to do with the strong beverage he’s drinking as if it’s water.

Mundus – it’s all that cocksucker’s fault! And there’s no attraction, no actual liking despite how much Dante wishes for it to be the opposite. Her asexuality –it’s obvious now. How could she be not repulsed, after all that that fucking Hell overlord probably did to her?!

Trish is the physical copy of his mother. And the hunter knows that Mundus always blamed Eve for Sparda’s betrayal. Even though the half-devil’s father had rebelled against the lord hundreds of years before the human was even born. It was possibly easier that way, to blame some feeble mortal woman, rather than himself for having even a miniscule belief in the demon knight. Therefore the deviless that was the visual representative of Eve... Mundus had to torture and humiliate her while virtually imagining it to be Dante’s mother... The half-blood feels like vomiting and crying uncontrollably. How could he have been so stupid?! How could he have not realized this sooner?! But that question’s been cleared already – his brain had chosen self-preservation instead.

It takes the demon hunter quite a while to get back to his train of thought.

It’s only logical that the deviless’s preliminary mission had been to bring the half-breed to Mundus by any means necessary. Even if it meant leading Dante by the dick. ‘Course even if Trish would have attempted something like that, contrary to popular belief, the half-devil would not have gone with it. Nothing like that happened because the dead overlord had made her too perfectly, based her too much of off the humans he so despised, gave her too much autonomy. The demoness hated being controlled from the beginning, she – if anything – is the embodiment of dominance. The huntress’s pride, self-loving and self-respect did not allow her to get to the half-blood through his bed. Heck, she would have dragged him to Mallet by the hair if he wouldn’t have cooperated. Or at least attempted it. And Dante knew it from the moment he had laid his eyes on her.

The half-devil thinks that it wasn’t just an order, no it was hardwired into her brain. The demoness repressed and fought against it as best as she could, in the end it just wasn’t enough. Mundus fucked her up (literally too – _don’t think about that!)_ too much for it to be something that she could just get over. Trish relied on the half-breed and felt let down that he couldn’t resist it – that was her test. And he failed it, failed her! She feels disappointed with Dante and disgusted with herself because of this need for physical contact with him, embedded in her brain.

For all the demonette’s human traits, beneath it all she’s still demonic. And the demon hunter knows many examples when her true nature showed. Even in his own existence there were times when his humanity just wasn’t enough to overpower the devil inside. Underneath the underneath – what lies there is the truth, denial and willpower don’t mater, because the hideous truth is always stronger than the pretty lie...    

Afterwards there’s a lot more potentially dangerous alcohol mixing. Along with an overshadowed thought that hopefully his demonic stomach will hold its ground come morn’.      

* * *

 

Trish comes back when it’s already a very late evening. Dante’s too hammered to greet her but not enough to not sense the return of her presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dante in a nutshell: part two.


	11. Hating inanimate objects

**Chapter eleven**

**_Hating inanimate objects_ **

 

 

The following days are almost the same as usual. However Dante’s more tense and the demonette only seems angrier. The demon hunter has been constantly planning on how to salvage this situation, so far he has found no solutions. He remembers the saying that hope is the mother of fools. So the half-breed kills the hope of Trish staying, because it’s only a matter of time when the demoness leaves again (for good this time). If there is no hope – there is no agony when the worst occurs and in case of a miracle he will be overjoyed. Expect nothing, get something – and be immeasurably happy, plain and simple. But wait, that’s also hoping. Damn, it seems that the half-devil can’t really do anything, just lie to himself.

There’s no proof that the deviless will abandon him, that’s only an assumption. But that’s wishful thinking, isn’t it? Preserving his sanity now and when he’s alone, what, the world ends? The hunter knows that he won’t think of knives and nooses this time. Hell, none of those would probably end him. He’s the hero, even if he doesn’t want to be.

The half-blood is the strongest being in this universe and that’s not inflated pride talking. No, it’s just a fact. When he was younger, a possibility like this was something he desperately wanted, it was the goal of his life. Funny, how achieved dreams can turn into nightmares so quickly. Now Dante’s the only one that can stop any upcoming apocalypses. And nobody gives a shit whether he wants this. If he were a human, like a superhero from some comic book, then there would be someone who could moonlight him when the world would become too much to handle; a predecessor that could take this huge burden from him. But this is life, not a fairytale, so the ‘good’ won’t always prevail... A mortal man would grow old, pass away with time, but he’s a half-devil and he will be able to ‘save everybody’ for a very long time to come.

The demon hunter feels tired, as old as many centuries, exhausted beyond the mere two decades with cents that he has existed in this plane. Trish seems old too, not visually but spiritually, lively one moment and so dreary the next. It’s a new finding, only another eyesore in the long list of things the half-blood noticed too late.

Every time the demoness had went away (whether it was planned or not) there were side effects, although the half-breed only notices them now. Nobody saw the changes either. He was always a moody prick that would throw sarcastic jabs at everyone. But with each departing of his partner, his sarcasm would turn into cynicism, each jab more insulting even if he never meant it. Dante would become bitter. If there’d be anyone who would have known him since his younger years (but there isn’t because Tony Redgrave is long dead) they might confuse this with maturity.

Still there is a handful of people that he would save from any impending doom without a second’s thought, but they don’t know him enough to notice that anything is amiss in his lonesome times. Way back, not all that long ago, he preferred solitude, it never gnawed at him. And while he cared and cares for those few friends and acquaintances – they don’t mean as much as the huntress. Their existence is that of an occasional visit, one moment here – the next already gone. That’s probably why their importance is not as great. She – Trish is always with him and it never bothered him. Ah, that’s probably not completely true about her significance, from their first meeting the deviless was bizarrely different from the rest. It’s not because the demoness looks like _her_. No, that was never the case. While she is the visual copy of Eve, the hunter never thought of her in that sense.

Since the first time that the half-blood laid eyes on her he found her strangely attractive. Although that might have been Mundus’ intention – he was a sick bastard, but Dante never entertained thoughts of the demonette with the context of his mother beneath. When Trish first made her _spectacular_ entrance (with the bike throwing ‘n’ all) into the Devil May Cry shop, the half-devil didn’t consider her even for a second to be a doppelgänger of Eve, even if in the end of the ordeal he did meet some ill fate.  

* * *

 

Nighttime falls and Dante’s afraid of putting his head on the pillow. If the half-breed dives into the well-deserved slumber, he won’t notice if the deviless walks away. And he may not even find a note with her artistic, gothic-themed writing on it.

He sighs, depriving himself of sleep won’t do any good either. So the hunter sinks into the red silken sheets. He curses his choice of bedding, he misses the simplicity of such a trifle thing. Now the silky feel is reminiscent of those ebony ones. It’s not a negative feeling, it’s a quite controversial one: he loves it and hates it. Should’ve chosen white linen sheets, the demon hunter mumbles in his mind. These are now encoded with a difficult cipher. That just like after you’ve learned to read, they are no longer jumbled symbols but clear words and you can no longer ignore them. And it’s just sheets for fuck’s sake!

Some immeasurable time later the drowsy demon hunter hears bare feet befalling onto the wooden flooring. This time the half-devil is much more awake and aware, he dreads what may come and is unconsciously enthusiastic about it. Well, holly Hell! He’s been given a second chance that he somehow knows he’ll screw up once again.

This time the door handle is turned slowly, the door is closed silently. Her footfalls are light and measured, strangely human-like. The demoness walks closer, Dante doesn’t turn his head to look at her. She pounces as swiftly and gracefully as a cat, setting atop him, beneath the sanguine covers. She feels weightless on him. The half-blood realizes that it’s her smooth, _bare_ legs that touch him.

Unlike before she isn’t violently attacking, just gazing at him. The half-breed tries to look as not astounded as possible. The demonette slowly leans into him and softly kisses his lips. The shocked man is trying with all his might not to respond into the sweet kiss. Shit! If he has to put such efforts to deny a small act as this, then he’s fighting a losing battle.

Languidly the deviless pulls away from the unresponsive demon hunter. Her slender hands, topped with long, square shaped, shiny onyx fingernails, caress his naked shoulders. Her tactics have changed but the half-devil doesn’t know what to make of it.

Trish’s breath is cool on the side of his face. His honed hearing picks up a broken breath, she tries to whisper something but the sound dies in her throat unuttered, unheard. The huntress then simply kisses the tender spot beneath his ear. Dante has an inner fight of epic proportions, to not shift his head in order to allow her better access. The touch of lips rains down the hunter’s neck. Long and silk-like ashen colored hair tickles his flesh.      

The demonette kisses the corners of his lips. Her actions seem reassuring as if she’s trying to reassure the half-blood of something. The demoness’s tongue is in the yielding mouth. He doesn’t fight it nor does he respond to it. At that instant the half-breed realizes that he’s already gone. He won’t act upon his sinful wants but he’s already too tired to do anything about it. He knows that it’s as much of a loss as anything. The devil inside him tells that he should just shut up and enjoy it. It doesn’t encourage him to listen to his whims, although it reminds the demon hunter how pleasurable that would be. Whispering to Dante that his luck with women is so legendary rotten that under no circumstances should it be ever disclosed, ‘less he wants to feel the epic embarrassment, should anyone know. Adding that only the hunter could be so stupid to choose demon slaying instead of any kind of social life.

The deviless pulls away, a string of saliva connecting their mouths severs with distance. He watches her, she watches him back. The half-devil remembers a quote by someone, it’s too distorted so he doesn’t recall it word to word, going by the lines “ _When you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes back into you”_. It describes accurately the feeling he gets as he looks into her eyes. They’re icy and clear but hollow... So hollow, that chills run down his spine and he feels empty just by looking at them.          

Dante’s dizzy, his head is spinning. And he doesn’t know whether it’s induced by the oxygen overload because of the deep breathing he’s sporting or if the situation’s to blame. His inner devil speaks again. Why is he resisting so much?! He shouldn’t be! Why doesn’t he cease this mental torture and just go with it?! By all means, isn’t this what he wanted?! Isn’t she what he wanted, _his_ Trish?! Now that she’s here and dressed in so little, why doesn’t he want this anymore?! He should just shut up and enjoy the ride. The voice inside the half-blood’s head screeches. The hunter doesn’t answer to its questioning, he doesn’t have the will nor the ability to do it.

There is a flash of what he identifies as annoyance in the demonette’s beautiful eyes. It disappears as quickly as it appears. She wraps her torso with the corner of the king-sized ruby sheet. The movement is quick and its purpose mystifies the half-breed. The cover about her partially obscures the touch of her skin and he’s mildly irritated by it. The demon hunter has already succumbed to the inevitable, therefore he no longer cares to analyze what his worn mind is going on about. His conscious is a mix between doing what Trish wants him to do and not making the situation worse. Although by his book, whatever they had between them is in shambles.    

Her face is a perfect porcelain mask (and the half-devil keeps the demoness and perfection on the same shelf because by the human standards all the imperfections and perfections that make her who she is, by his preferences are pure perfection). The deviless’s expression is not in harmony with her actions. Her hands slide past his shoulders. Nails digging into his shoulder blades, sinking deep into the skin despite their visual bluntness. The hunter’s chest involuntarily twists upwards from the sheer pressure. Dante feels warm liquid trickling down his back, probably the same color as the sanguine sheets beneath.

The wounds aren’t healing he realizes and he doesn’t know why. A thought worms itself into the half-blood’s mind. Not obscured by possibility and logic, it whispers that it’s because Trish wants them not to heal. The half-breed laughs inwardly, apparently at times his body knows better than his brain what she wants and actually obeys the demonette’s will.

The lengthy square-end fingernails slide upwards to his shoulders, leaving deep bleeding gashes in their wake. Ay ay, fuck that hurts! In the heat of battle the injuries are much worse, the demon hunter thinks, but when you’re fighting it’s the adrenalin, bloodlust or simply because your psyche is occupied with different things – or something of the sort, that makes the pain completely irrelevant. Even if you’re impaling yourself onto some monster’s gun/spear/sword/scythe/claw or whatever, compared to hitting your toe – the pain of the latter is immeasurable (and thank the demon blood for high-speed regeneration, for rarely having to deal with wounds after battle).

The deviless drags her nails down the half-devil’s arms, stopping by his biceps. The bloody trails hurt. And they hurt like Hell! The half-blood states in his mind. The wounds on his shoulder blades aren’t healing still. Ah, well that’s not exactly true, he corrects himself, the blood is congealing but only by the speeds of human regeneration. That’s very peculiar.

Trish caresses the broken flesh with the very pads of her fingers, carefully even. It stings terribly, Dante distantly likes the sensation. He hates his warped self right now. The hunter tries not to hiss.

She continues the sadistic touches. And the half-breed feels more than hears (due to their closeness) the demoness purring. The mascara covered eyelashes veil her lidded blue eyes, ripe-cherry red painted lips (not smudged by her kisses, it seems) are pursed. The huntress enjoys playing with her prey. Her visage turns the half-devil on. He curses mentally, thoughts like these will lead him southward fast.

The demonette slowly licks the wounds, first one arm then the other. The painful feeling sends an instant jolt between his legs. Dante chokes on a breath. The half-breed knows that it’s impossible for her not to feel him hardening when she’s sitting in his lap. This scenario is much too similar to the one that happened previously. Somehow the deviless doesn’t seem to mind, her gaze is appreciating as if she’s marveling at her handiwork. The cuts aren’t bleeding anymore, maybe just the ones on his shoulder blades. He can’t will himself to care.

She turns her attention to his face. The half-devil can’t tell what his expression looks like. Trish leans down and kisses him, her tongue swirls in the compliant mouth. He wants to respond to it fervently. The hunter tastes his own blood and a tint of something that is purely her.

The demoness pulls away and traces a nail down the demon hunter’s bare torso. He watches mesmerized as it moves downwards leaving a trail with droplets of red here and there. She shifts slightly brushing unintentionally against the clothed part of the half-blood’s body. He bucks into the unexpected friction but the deviless ignores the response. Dante curses himself by the hundred. Her dainty hands no longer linger on his form and he barely contains himself from complaining vocally about it.

A lacy, black push-up bra descends to the floor. The red cloth is still held close to her body. The moment when the article of clothing is removed seems swift to the half-breed. Truly it isn’t but the sheer surprise element makes it so. He looks surprised and the thought of hiding this doesn’t even cross his mind. The hunter draws a blank. He doesn’t understand it, he doesn’t comprehend this. The half-devil thought that he knew how this story goes, alas he’s proven to be mistaken.          

Before the inner self-bashing can commence the demon hunter’s head is yanked back. The huntress licks a droplet of sweat from the exposed throat. His adam’s apple bobbing nervously as he swallows the excess saliva. She releases her hold and he plops back into the pillows. He doesn’t manage to form a coherent thought when the action repeats. This time her hand softly buries itself in his silver hair and she lifts his head off the bedding. The half-blood doesn’t fight it.

Dante clenches his eyes shut, he doesn’t know why he does it. Soon his lips connect to the demonette’s flesh. At some point the sheet is moved away slightly from her form. The scent is intoxicating from this proximity. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to grasp the fact that his unmoving mouth is touching Trish’s pert breast. Clenching the sheets in his fists he battles the want to bring his hands to where his maw lingers.

Only when the tugging on his hair is threatening to tear his scalp off does the hunter take the peak into his mouth. There is more forceful pulling on his platinum locks. The half-devil complies and sucks eagerly. He wants to do so much more... It would be divine to run his hands along her waist... To worship every inch of her. To kiss, to lick and bite her creamy skin... The half-blood opens his eyes and gazes at the deviless. Her head is thrown back, her throat is exposed. Oh gods, how he’d love to explore it. How would it feel to run his hands through her silky blond hair...

There is more pulling, he replies with swirling his tongue over the bud. The half-breed dreams of doing this his way but it’s her game and he can’t interfere. She’ll probably leave soon when she’ll see that’s he’s completely failed her. The demon hunter had sworn to an unspoken promise to keep Trish safe, even if it means protecting her from his own selfishness.

He desperately wants to push her down on this bed and bury himself in her body. To see her in ecstasy, enjoying this and not betrayal or colossal disappointment... Maybe to let her ride him into oblivion and to willingly submit to her like a dog. Just from Trish, he would take any leash or whip without any complaint. Dante wants to fuck her on the bed, against a wall, on his desk, in his favorite chair and many other even strange places. But those are all empty dreams that cannot be achieved. The half-devil refuses to think about this anymore, it’s as useless as trying to capture wind with your bare hands...                      

And all too soon he is yanked away from her. A whimper escapes him. The hunter flops down onto his pillows like lead. He isn’t even allowed (or forced really) to bring the same attention to her other breast. He can barely hide the dissatisfaction as the sheet is covering the demonette’s nude torso from his eyes again. The half-blood doesn’t even catch a decent glimpse of her luxurious skin. Unintentionally his eyebrows knit themselves and he pouts. The half-breed’s breathing is erratic. He is painfully hard. The point of embarrassment is long since passed, he is only left with resignation. This defeat is too horrifying to be true.    

Dante looks away. Mentally preparing himself for her departure from his bedroom and the justified wrath that is sure to come.

There is more of that unbearable shuffling that wouldn’t require such a graceful creature as the demoness to abandon his lap. The demon hunter’s gaze is instantly turned back to her. _This shouldn’t--_ the thought is obliterated. He sees black lacy panties dangling on her finger, they are discarded to the floor. Both of them are wrapped in the ruby sheet.

A claw draws down the half-devil’s exposed torso, due to his complete mental black-out an unauthorized shiver runs down his form. The fingernail disappears in the covers, it hooks onto his underwear. Playing by the rules, fuck that! This is no longer her game, her experiment. He’s no longer sure of what this mutated into. The half-blood’s ready to protest, to say anything to stop this. His words die in his throat as his last garment is ripped from his body and pulled out from beneath the cloth. It is thrown somewhere in the room. His mind is a void. They’re both completely naked underneath the sheets.    

The ability to breathe is momentarily forgotten. Her kiss is scalding, angry and demanding. It’s just a murky guess because his thinking capacities are offline. The deviless starts shredding the half-breed’s flesh again. Trish lets go of his paralyzed mouth and there’s more of that unbearable shifting. A tormented groan escapes the demon hunter.

Hands anchor themselves on his abused shoulders as she tries to angle their bodies. He feels heat starting to envelope him. His lower lip is trapped between his teeth. Unexpectedly Dante’s length is swiftly shoved up inside her. The half-blood’s eyes roll into the back of his head, body arching on its own. The sensation is so overwhelming, his release is barely contained. In the midst of the unforeseen suddenness his lip is bitten. He doesn’t really register the coppery taste overtaking his taste buds.

By some heavenly miracle the hunter manages to return to the proper pose of lying on the bed. The half-devil pants, breaking out in a cold sweat. Faster than he can anticipate or handle the demonette’s body lifts and impales itself onto him, over and over again. The pace isn’t quick but the thrusts are so deep, demonic in their gracefulness and rhythm. Neither his mental nor physical self can adapt to it. He is so close to spilling that he tries to prevent in by any means. Not for the sake of pleasing the demoness but unknowingly in order to save something that is long since gone. The demon hunter attempts to think of anything but her, to not further his arousal and impending climax. Alas his mind is unresponsive.

She is so unimaginably tight. Based on instinct alone he gathers that her core is so exceedingly dry that it is even uncomfortable. The deviless can’t possibly feel comfortable. The steely clench of her jaw must be an indicator of that. Her movement is unmerciful and unchanging, hurting them both. Why is Trish doing this? The demonette should torture him and enjoy it in sadistic glee. This is wrong, all wrong! The demon hunter wants to grasp her hips in his hands and steady her, to cease this painful action. But he can’t, by gods he can’t! Dante _loves_ her so, so much that he can’t take control, nor disallow the demonette to do as she pleases. In the end she torments them both.                    

He struggles with himself, trying to get used to this all too new sensation. It is controversial – indescribably pleasurable and so royally uncomfortable. The hunter’s lust-overtaken part wins as he is swallowed by the huntress’s magnificence. He is dazed by her devilish divinity. The way the moonlight shimmers in her ashen blond hair, the way the strands sway slowly... The way the icy blue eyes of the demoness are covered with dark-painted lashes... The way her plump lips part as she inhales... The way she closes her mesmerizing eyes as she throws back her head... The way her pale skin seems to shine in the darkness...

The half-breed studies her dainty hand as it clutches the sheet to her form. He realizes how small and petite the demonette truly is. Despite the immense power that that form hides and the cold strength of her mentality, somehow he knows that she is fragile. Reminiscent of ice... The hunter wants to protect her and never let go but he is unable as a bird trying to take flight with broken wings.      

Dante’s neck is softly bitten. The wound Trish had adorned him with, a couple of days before, is long since healed. But his skin still holds the memory. He shudders from the enjoyable and hated pain that shouldn’t be present. The invisible brand still holds.

Quite some time goes by until the discomfort erodes away. Her pace leaves unchanged but he feels the difference as their bodies join, it is easier. The half-blood would not have believed if anyone had told him that such a meager want of simple touch could be so difficult to handle... He bucks once into her, the motion passes unhindered by his iron self-control.

The demon hunter groans as the deviless clenches around him. Her long hair sways as she elegantly throws her head back. Out of breath her red lips part, _his_ diva... The rhythm she creates is drawn out, even slower now. Feeling his own physique’s desperate want to follow, the half-devil chants in this psyche for it to cease quickly. The demonette’s insides torture him with their exquisite spasms and his form blazes. Sweat is dripping off of him, a droplet falls into his eye and it closes in reflex. Her temperature however is only slightly risen and it contrasts strongly with his burning heat.

It seems that an eternity has passed when the demoness finally returns from her sky-fall. The hunter almost sighs in relief. Somehow her movement seems reluctant. Successful – he should feel so, having prayed for her climax to end, and when it actually has, he selfishly wants it to happen again and again. It’s difficult not to follow the wishes, which arise in every part of the half-breed, to just grasp her flesh and lull Trish into continuing her initial rhythm. How stupidly egoistic – he berates himself. It doesn’t matter what he desires, it doesn’t matter if it would be right to somehow stop her. Because he can’t tell her what to do, he can’t _order_ her. This should be enough, he had managed to pleasure her and that _should_ be enough. But it’s for the deviless to decide when this ends.        

The barest nuances in Trish’s expressionless facade of apathy tell Dante that the returned monotone pace is forced. He remains as complaint as before.

By the demonette’s second high (which the demon hunter manages to survive without joining the ecstasy) he begins loathing the sheet around her. It blocks the view of that luscious body. And when she bends closer, the cloth between them denies him the feel of her skin. The half-blood starts to despise every dead object in the room. Hating inanimate objects – it’s like some twisted hobby now. It helps him to turn his attention away from the constricting, wet and hot core. Well as much as that is possible anyway. But damn, does he hate that sheet!

There are many more climaxes. And the half-devil loses count. In all truth he remembers each but their exact number does now interest him now. They are like tidal waves, unexpectedly sweeping him away every time they occur. Each stronger than the last and taking longer to be reached. The urges are becoming harder and harder to resist. Not just the ones that push him to partake in the demoness’s sweet releases but the ones to participate in the movement as well. The changes in the rhythm are repetitive in their pattern. The cycle continues. She kisses and scratches at the hunter’s flesh now and then. Every time angrier and more violent. There are already holes torn from his unyielding clutches in the bedding beneath him.

_I love you_ , the words swirl in Dante’s head and the desire to declare it out loud grows rapidly. The half-breed stays silent, for the both of their sakes he can’t utter a thing. Most importantly the realization of what he truly feels, the feelings that he hid from himself and Trish.  

It is dawning, the hours gone by are equivalent to eons. The perfect movement is unsettled. The demon hunter is gifted with a quiet mewl (he cannot describe the sound as anything else), it is incomparable with her scarce in quantity silent gasps of before. The deviless’s core clenches and the tightening is so powerful that the half-blood comes undone. His body jerks and spasms of its own volition.

Small hands try to find some leverage on the half-devil’s chest. The ecstasy of their release is so overpowering that his eyes roll to the back of his skull. The half-breed nearly blacks out. His claw extends to find some solace on the demonette’s alabaster skin but it is retracted, barely having travelled millimeters from its original position. Even in his pleasure-overload dazed mind, he still manages to remain true to his objective, albeit only partially. Not everything that is broken can be mended but he’s forgotten that for the moment.

The rhythm dies down. The demoness’s form is shaking like a leaf in heavy autumn winds. She rests her forehead on his collarbone. Void of anything he lays unmoving, not quite returned from the clouds. Some part of his mind breaks from the mental pause. Well thank his hellish heritage, it seems that it’s not only good for fighting! The voice inside his head evaluates his inhumanly good ‘performance’.

The black-varnished claws sink into Dante’s shoulders again. They instantly let go and there’s something that was supposed to be a hiss but due to her breathless state the sound is obscured.

He’s too out of himself to actually focus and see how she demonically quickly puts on her neatly discarded lingerie. The hunter does feel the moment when their bodies harshly disconnect. The way her silk-like warmth suddenly disappears. And he misses the feeling of her surrounding him.

Trish abandons his bedroom in angered haste. The half-devil’s arm reaches out to her retreating form but she doesn’t turn back to witness it. He feels empty, as if his heart has been torn out from his ribcage. And although the alarm bells in his brain are all ringing on full throttle, singing their fucked-up melody, the demon hunter doesn’t budge.

His being is so spent in every sense, so overused, and he’s sure that no battle had ever left him in such a state. The ability to move is still retained. He knows that he should quickly dress up and go after the deviless. He should apologize, plead, beg and even crawl on his knees to make sure that her leave isn’t permanent. But he doesn’t. The hunter doesn’t even know why. The half-breed feels so, so tired, so completely defeated. His hand falls down heavily, failing to grasp something that is no longer there...  

 


	12. Mirror bound

**Chapter twelve**

**_Mirror bound_ **

 

 

Trish storms trough the corridor. To the knowledgeable trained eye her graceful stride is disharmonized, her body still not gotten over the forced intrusion.

She enters her bedroom. Slamming the door shut so forcefully that it almost goes off the hinges, having seen better treatment.

Quickly the deviless puts on her usual black garb. Despising the way the leather refuses to slide onto her sweaty skin, the way it feels on her heated flesh. Fervently hating the sensation in between her legs, the mixed wet liquids dripping from her core. So uncomfortable... The long, black, high-heeled leather boots are shoved onto her bare, damp feet. The zippers barely withstanding the angered speed.

The huntress measuredly stalks into the middle of the room. She tries to regulate her breathing and closes her eyes, refusing to bawl like a child. So angry and lost, it’s difficult not to sob brokenly. She can’t and she won’t! Because remember what Dante said – only devils never cry. The demoness has had enough of this human-pretend masquerade. She’s tired of this farce.

The demonette needs to quickly pack her bags, throw in everything that’s necessary and run away, get away from the hunter as far as she can. Wanting to forget him and this stupid ordeal that is her life but with her perfect memory she won’t ever escape this torment. She can’t take this shit anymore!

Trish opens her eyes, her eyelashes dampened, and the grand mirror on the make-up table catches her vision. Gazing at the reflection and loathing what she sees. She walks closer to the vanity and pushes everything that is within reach off the wooden surface. The discarded items shatter loudly. She meets her panting self in the reflection. The demoness hates the half-devil’s eyes, the almond shaped, icy blues – the same as hers, and she has to meet them every time she looks into a mirror. Only what lies beneath them differs.

This is a bloody joke! And she’s probably the only one that finds it not funny. She takes the resting intricate hairbrush that is one of the many despised reminders that she’s only the living phantom of _that_ , which is long dead. The hair comb flies to the reflective surface and the glass cracks in a web, although a side of the mirror remains does not shatter. The thrown brush breaks but not completely as it is still not in two. She doesn’t pick it up to continue demolishing the object.

Her visage leers at her in the reflection. The deviless sits on the table and rests her head onto the undamaged side, hugging her legs to herself.

It doesn’t matter what you want when you’re just the fucking copy. And while she could change her form into something else, for the halfling or for herself, that would no longer be _Trish_. She could alter this appearance, cut and dye her hair and similar minor ‘adjustments’, but she won’t. The demonette loves herself with the purest of narcissism. Her self-loving and pride won’t allow her to become someone else. And in all truth that probably wouldn’t help anyway.                      

She sighs and lights a cigarette with a shaking hand, not able to control her anger, anguish and despair. How stupid the deviless was, following blindly after the half-blood. Like a trapped soul escaping its cage at first chance uncaring even if it leads into certain doom. It’s all nihil, she sees it now.

At the very beginning she loved abusing the liberties given with Dante’s person. He was only meagerly resistant, giving her anything she desired. Not ever failing to meet her demands. Only enjoying being the dominatrix while the half-human was a playfully unwilling slave. The demonic greed is strong within the demoness so she required to attain more, if he gave her everything without complain, what was to submit to her fully. Hell, this isn’t about love. She only wants him, _wanted_ him – the demonette corrects. Because there is no use to seek something you cannot possess.

When the huntress first bound him and used him, she enjoyed it for a short lived moment. Trish hadn’t considered this possible outcome, she calculated many a happening and was aware of this one as well. Alas it was such a distant thought, that she hadn’t contemplated it to any degree. The demoness exhales the bitter smoke. Foolish – that’s not something she has often labeled herself with. You should have known better – her devilish mind berates.

She shouldn’t have believed what the half-breed had claimed. Surely it wasn’t a deliberate lie but it was a lie nonetheless. Certainly a small fraction of the half-devil’s psyche is aware that she is not the deceased mortal Eve. Although the differences seemingly disappears and the boundary is erased. The demoness knows that to him she’s the representative of Sparda’s wife. Not quite the same but still somehow far too reminiscent to his dead mother to be considered as something else.

The deviless wanted the demon hunter to do anything, to assure her that she’s more than just a shadow person. She needed that proof to continue but the demonette is denied of such a luxury. She expected him to react in some way, to have some sort of reaction and it didn’t matter what kind. Anything from happiness to rage would have sufficed but instead the hunter did the worst – he did nothing. Trish would have been content with the barest of signals. He should have indulged in what she bestowed him with or simply pushed her off of him. But noooo, Dante’s a good little boy and he always listens to mommy. Disgusting! If the demoness would’ve been rejected, she would have ceased instantly and maybe even sticked with him, returned to the way it used to be.

Ugh, and when his face would contort into this ‘cute’ lost and scared expression, she even expected him to say ‘mommy, don’t go’. But the half-blood’s an obedient child and he doesn’t utter a word when he’s not allowed to. Despicable half-human! And what a brain damaged devil she turned out to be!

This is hopeless, beyond any mending. The demonette feels her insides twist and nausea engulfs her. She fucked him, the petulant man-child. Emotionally and ideologically wise it’s the worst happening in her entire shitty life. And the demoness is sickened by her own warped desires. Trying with fervor to think of everything in the past tense, instead of acknowledging that it still ‘is’. There’s no rational sense to cling to this twisted reality, to hold onto these relentless obsessions.  

Trish takes a drag on the smoke. For some reason or the other, the hunter used to hate it. Now, due to her own negative influence, you can’t get him away from cigarettes. An unconscious bittersweet smile graces her ruby-red lips. The sentimental thought is pushed out of her head far too quickly.

She abhors her heritage for gifting her with this all-powerful avarice. The smoking butt is forgotten in between her long fingers. So caught up in the self-loathing the deviless notices it only when the filter starts burning. Enraged she throws the cigarette away and it lands on the floorboards. With time the ember ebbs away.

The trembling demonette attempts yet again to lead her mind away from these painful subjects. She remembers eon old cemeteries, filled with beautiful statues, grand crypts and moss-covered tombstones. Searching the memory for the peace such eerie silent places offer. The huntress cannot attain it.

The marble angels are looking down upon her, scorning with their unforgiving eyes her naivety. _What did you expect? What, you believed you could own everything you wished for? Thought that he could love you? Stop trying to corrupt the half-human from the rightful path! Demon whore, go back to the Hell hole you crawled out from!_

**Shut up!** Like she needs the judgment of imaginary, inanimate objects! The deviless winds her hands into her hair. Just shut the fuck up!  

The demoness is well aware that she possesses each of the seven deadly sins, she needs no reminders.

Pride – because she’s prideful of him and her, knowing that they’re both the strongest that there’ll ever be; her self-loving is grand.

Greed – because she wants everything and to own him completely; nothing will stand in her way of attaining what she desires.

Gluttony – because she is insatiable when sharing any meal with him; always starving for his affections.

Sloth – because why should she move her ass to retrieve anything when he can do it for her.

Lust – because she wants him inside her, fucking her ‘till she bleeds.

Envy – because whenever he flirts even if forever jesting, she sees green; and if she could he’d be stuffed into her closet and punished severely for any transgressions.

Wrath – because when anything dares to inflict even the barest hints of damage onto him or her, they will not leave alive.

Trish traces her mirrored silhouette. At their initial meeting she had not even for a fraction of a second considered the demon hunter to be worth anything or interesting to her. Any intimate idea revolving around her and Dante at the beginning had revolted her. Not just because of his origin, nor the fact that he was the enemy and definitely not because of Mundus’ orders. The deviless had absolutely no wish to interact with the halfling longer than was necessary for her theatrics to be bought. Which weren’t doubted not even by the least bit.

Funny, how quickly such adamantine beliefs can morph into something else. That’s not quite right, she corrects herself, this change of heart had not transpired in a day, it happened gradually. Contrary to what anyone from aside would say it wasn’t the half-blood’s heroism that caught her. It was the offer of freedom – the reason why the demonette joined him. Always ready to escape if something was not to her liking. And why she had protected him... Well, it wasn’t because of admiration. Not to repay for her life, either. Was it because she believed that the half-devil could’ve defeated the Hell overlord, not likely. It was an act driven by instinct, the demoness wasn’t thinking when she gave herself as sacrifice. There is no use attaching additional labels to that happening and praising her ‘goodness’, for it was something plain and simple.

With the passing days he became important. The silly antics, quirks and his very presence turned to be needful. Her wish to own the hunter had arisen later. The nagging thought ‘mine’ kept repeating itself by the hundred in her conscious.

He didn’t belong to anyone else, he is a loner by spirit. All of his friends – distant and scarce in their number, barely present and businessy in their attitude. So the demonette became his closest person, his only confidante and Dante became the same to her. The want to possess was not born in her ‘loving heart’ nor because of any other fairytale shit. The deviless’s heart had always been blackened and unbeating, morals corrupt and her persona jaded.        

Damn him! Why did he have to do this? Was she not good enough?! The demoness smiles crookedly at the accusation. That’s not quite the point, not by a longshot. She’s simply the clone of someone no longer living that’s important to him. Therefore it’s not relevant whether she is ‘good enough’ or not, because to the half-blood her existence holds other meanings. Who cares for what she really is...

Trish leans away and looks at her reflection with her head high, drowning in her own icy blue eyes. She knows that she can’t ever sever her ties with the dead. And it’s futile to those to whom you’re just a copy. Because in the end she is mirror bound.

 

**The end**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so my story has reached its finale, I hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> Feedback is very appreciated and responded to!

**Author's Note:**

> Mirror Bound was originally written in 2012-2013
> 
> Feedback is very appreciated and responded to!


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